


This May Be My Last Song

by ItsADrizzit



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Established Relationship, Feelings, M/M, Transfer Window
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-14
Updated: 2017-10-14
Packaged: 2018-12-31 20:13:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 25,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12140232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ItsADrizzit/pseuds/ItsADrizzit
Summary: You know this isn’t just another match. You know this might be the last time. The last time I put on this shirt. The last time…on the field with you.Jettisoned to the center of the storm, and I'm thinking I'd prefer not to be rescued.





	1. Don't You Think I Wish That I Could Stay?

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the emotional rollercoaster that was the 2017 summer transfer window. I admit there were times I wondered if I'd survive.
> 
> Inspired by Jack's Mannequin's "[Rescued](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VwuLm1HPpSY)", because I was listening to it on repeat transfer deadline day while sat in a chair under a blanket trying to work through all of this.
> 
> It's a bit later than I wanted this, but it's a story I needed to tell and I wanted to take the time to get it right.
> 
> Thanks to kaixo for being an excellent beta, cheerleader, conversationalist, and all around lovely person. I'm not sure I could do this without you. Remaining mistakes and abuse of the English language are my own.

**Sunday, 20 August, 2017 — London, England**

 

The moment he stepped through the door and shut it behind him, Vincent flung his boot bag to the floor. His jacket followed a second later, then his shoes as he hopped on one foot, then the other to rip his trainers from his feet and pitch them to the ground.

Shed of whatever he could throw without risking damage to possessions he’d rather not have to replace, he stomped to the living room and collapsed onto the sofa.

The fabric felt cool and familiar underneath him, and he stretched out to his full length, pressing his entire body as far into the sofa as he could. He stared up at the ceiling, its usual stark white now cast in a warm gold by the London sunset outside his wide windows.

Two minutes.

Two minutes of play during extra time because Tripps went down with an injury and he happened to be the closest at hand. Once again, Vincent had proven himself a valued member of the team on a day when no one else on the side could put a foot right.

The second half of the match had been the perfect scenario for him to come in and make a difference; for Pochettino to change things up and dare to try him alongside Harry in the attack for once. Just once, he could let Vincent do what he was good at doing: open passing lanes, create space. Instead, what? Slot in Moussa. Shore up the midfield. Pochettino might as well have come out and told Vincent to his face that he was surplus to requirements.

The overhead light flashed on, and Vincent groaned and squinted against the intrusion, pressure building behind his eyelids, his head on the verge of a monster of a headache.

A few seconds later, the cushions shifted beneath him as Christian slid onto the sofa. He perched on the edge, the small of his back pressed against Vincent’s ribs. Vincent moved backward to allow him more space, which he slipped into, his warmth never leaving the curve in Vincent’s side above his hip.

Vincent lowered his head a bit so he could see Christian, who stared out into the living room, saying nothing.

Because what could he say? What could anyone say?

Six weeks ago, the club had been “ _Ready to give Vincent another chance_ ” and he’d been ready to take it. He’d pushed himself harder, showed up early, stayed late, and done extra gym sessions to get fit, even waking up early for a morning jog around his neighbourhood on lighter training days.

He'd traveled with the club to the United States and played as many minutes as possible in the sweltering summer heat around a whirlwind of appearances and autograph signings for their fans. He'd been the first to step forward for the Spurs’ TV spots. He'd done everything the club asked of him and more, all with a smile.

A month ago, the offers had started coming in. Vincent remained adamant that he wanted to stay. Pochettino agreed that he wanted him to stay.

Today, he'd played two minutes at the end of a 2-1 loss because he happened to be convenient.

He slid his arm along the cushions, searching for Christian’s hand, and twined slender fingers between his own.

Vincent closed his eyes again. “Two minutes,” he whispered.

“Yeah.”

“What else am I supposed to do, Chris?”

“ _Ik weet het niet_ ,” Christian said after a long silence. “You work so hard. I can see how much you want this. We all can. I just…Sometimes in football things don’t work out, you know?”

Christian pressed closer against Vincent’s hip. His grip on Vincent’s hand tightened to a near crush, but Vincent welcomed the pressure.

Vincent leaned forward and wrapped an arm around Christian, then lay back down, pulling Christian alongside him, the warmth of the body against his own comforting and familiar.

“I feel like we’re all letting you down.” Christian’s voice was barely above a whisper.

Vincent pressed a kiss to the top of Christian’s head. Soft hair tickled at his nose, but he didn’t pull back.

“Funny,” he murmured against Christian’s hair. “Because I feel the same way. That I’m letting all of you down. You all believe in me. You put in so much time to help me get settled and get fit and learn the league and I… I don’t know. I’m starting to think maybe I can’t do it. Maybe I’m not meant to be here. At least, not at a top club. Maybe mid-table is the best I can be right now.”

Christian gave a small snort of a laugh. “Last I checked we were mid-table.”

“Not for long. You know as well as I do that you’ll come out of it. The goals will come. The wins. The glory. Vaulted into the top four in no time at all.”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not. It all feels different this year, you know?”

Vincent did know. Despite this being only his second year at the club he could feel the subtle shift in the locker room. Things said and unsaid. Things said that should have been left unsaid. A vague disquiet over it all.

 _Wembley curse. Need to strengthen the squad. Spurs missed their chance. Everything to prove._ And above it all… _when will they bring in a proven goal-scorer to support Harry?_

Worst of all, they weren’t wrong. He didn’t fit the system. He might have the skills to be successful, but he wasn’t what Spurs wanted. He’d tried to adjust, but he was never going to be the kind of player they were looking for. Finding a burst of speed ahead of goal and darting into an opening or beating a defender to a ball wasn't his game. He'd never managed to figure out how to end up in just the right spot at just the right time like Harry.

Plenty of other clubs needed him, clubs that could run a two-striker system and let him play the game his way. But those clubs…weren’t this one.

“I need to play, Chris.” Vincent’s voice shook and he sucked in a breath to swallow back the emotions threatening to spill out of him. “I have to think about the future. My career. About _Oranje_. It’s a World Cup year. If I don’t get minutes…”

Christian lived this life. He understood better than anyone. If you didn’t play for your club, if you were not match fit, if you were not getting yourself in front of the manager on a regular basis and showing you could compete, you’d be forgotten. There were plenty of up-and-coming Dutch strikers ready to take his spot. He could only ride out his past glory for so long before he moved to the bench and eventually the national team call ups stopped coming altogether.

The pressure behind his eyelids had spread to his temples. His throat felt tight and his face and ears burned. “It’s not like I want to leave. To give up. But the way things are… Isn’t it better to get in some minutes somewhere no one has ever heard of than to sit on the bench as the object of ridicule and disdain at the best club in the world?”

Christian rolled onto his right side, facing Vincent this time. He tucked his face into the curve between Vincent’s neck and shoulder. Vincent pulled him closer and kissed his forehead, Christian’s skin warm and soft against his lips.

They lay that way for long moments. Vincent focused on the familiar curves and lines of the body beside his own. So comfortable after months alongside one another.

From the first night they’d spent together, Vincent had jumped at any possible chance to explore Christian’s body, holding him close as they lay together in bed, slipping in next to him on the sofa while they ate dinner or watched matches or played FIFA or caught up on whatever was on the DVR, never missing an opportunity to wrap Christian in a hug or crush their bodies together the moment they found themselves behind closed doors.

How could he leave this behind now that he finally had it?

 

He’d been infatuated with Christian for five and a half years—since the day he’d sat in De Kuip with his Feyenoord youth teammates and watched Christian score a screamer of a goal for Ajax. Christian was gorgeous in every way: his long, lean limbs, the way he held himself when he moved, his surefooted passes and laser strikes, the way he could run forever with no sign of fatigue, the bursts of power and speed propelling his slight body forward at the right moment.

Supporting Ajax had been considered an act of treason against his own club, but Vincent didn’t care. He’d recorded each match, watching them in secret in the dark of his bedroom once he could no longer hear Rick and Tonny moving about their small apartment in the Rotterdam _Centrum_. He'd left the volume on low, the hiss of cars and faint shouts from the street outside his window keeping him on edge with the strange fear that someone might discover him. As if this were something illicit, him huddled in front of the television silently wishing for Christian to help Ajax net another goal.

When Christian moved to England, Vincent became an unapologetic Spurs supporter with only minimal teasing from his teammates. Cheering on an English club was normal. Most of them wanted to play in England someday.

A year ago, his own call came in from Tottenham. Vincent thought it must be a joke. His agent having a laugh with him because he knew how much Vincent revered the club. But it wasn’t. This beautiful club wanted him. Believed he could make them better. Fit into the system and fill a need. The manager speaking candidly about how impressed he was with Vincent’s performance. How Vincent was what Spurs needed to boost the attack.

Spurs wanted _him_ , so of course he had to go.

He’d underestimated everything about his move to the Premier League. The country, the people, the culture. The constant motion and noise. London rippling with frenetic energy, restlessness. Different from the more relaxed liveliness of Amsterdam. Vincent struggling to find his feet and his words, although he’d known English since childhood.

Hardest of all, the league itself. He’d known it would be faster, more frantic. The defending would be tighter. He’d have to be quicker. Smarter. More creative. He known it would be a challenge, but he’d believed himself ready. In reality, he hadn’t even been close.

Christian had organized a group of former Eredivisie players to help him learn, which he’d appreciated more than he could ever tell them, but it didn’t help. If anything, he’d felt worse with each day his teammates stayed late to help him to no effect. All their expert advice rattling around in his mind yet he still couldn’t manage to find the net.

 

Vincent concentrated as he had so many times on Christian’s soft breath against his neck. Pale skin. Hair glinting with gold in the light of the room. The sharp outline of each of Christian’s ribs beneath Vincent’s fingers making Christian feel fragile, although Vincent knew well that he was all lean muscle and raw strength.

Just as Vincent started to relax, to leave behind the storm in his brain as his breathing shifted to match the rhythm of Christian’s soft breath against his neck, Christian stirred, his voice beside Vincent’s ear breaking the silence.

“This is why I didn’t want to get into a relationship with a teammate.”

It was nothing Christian hadn’t said before, but this time the words were fingernails gouging tracks into Vincent’s already raw emotions. Christian’s hesitance about this relationship had been clear from the start, but Vincent thought they had worked past it after more than half a year of spending most nights in each other’s beds.

Vincent jerked away, studying Christian’s face for any sign of...anything, but it remained blank, his eyes heavy lidded, revealing a hint of grey blue iris beneath light brown lashes.

And that was Christian. Always composed. Always practical. Always rational. Delivering even these stinging words with a laid-back detachment.

Vincent needed several seconds to locate his voice.

“Then why did you?”

Christian’s eyelids flicked open. His gaze shifted to meet Vincent’s own. “I didn’t have much of a choice, did I?”

His voice neutral even as the words cut at Vincent’s heart.

Vincent pushed himself all the way to a sitting position, kicking his legs to slide them out from where they were wedged between Christian’s body and the back of the sofa.

How could Christian say he had no choice?

 

Six months ago—Christian seated right here on the sofa beside him—Vincent had finally worked up the courage to ask Christian about his feelings.

Six words spoken in Dutch in the still darkness of a February night. _Wat wil je dat dit zijn? What do you want this to be?_ Vincent asked, and gave Christian the space to find the answer. Let Christian know he was open to anything—friendship, a relationship, casual hook-ups whenever one of them needed a release—no strings, no pressure. Vincent had longed for the right answer, but he hadn’t pushed. Just asked, then went to bed and lay in the dark hoping Christian made the right choice.

Christian _had_ chosen. This interstitial space where they rushed together at any possible moment and held one another at a comfortable arm’s length the moment they stepped through a door into the outside world. It wasn’t everything, it never could be, but it was enough.

A long drag of absolutely nothing. Blank silence between them that strangled away all rational thought in Vincent’s head.

Gasping in a breath. Trying to find his voice. Blackness flooded into the edge of Vincent’s vision. Like Christian had reached in and torn something out of him.

“How can you say that?” Vincent choked out, managing to extract his legs, and pressing himself as far away from Christian as he could. “No one’s forcing you to be here. To do any of this. No one made you get into my bed that night. Or any night since. I’ve done nothing but give you space and let you decide where this…whatever this is…is going.”

Vincent propped an elbow against the arm of the sofa and dropped his forehead to his palm. Pressure building in his temples. His breathing shallow as his heart pounded in his chest. He squeezed his eyes shut against the sharp pricks of pain at their corners.

Christian shifted beside him. Pressed himself into a sitting position. Vincent watched out of the corner of his eye as Christian reached out a hand toward him, paused, reconsidered, and drew it back into his lap.

“I…” Christian’s voice wavered, the words choked and forced even as he tried to maintain his characteristic calm. “I said I didn’t have a choice. I didn’t say it was your fault.”

And what was that supposed to mean?

Christian chewed on his lower lip and stared at the ceiling in the way he did when he was trying to find the words he wanted to say to smooth over some situation. Media trained thoughtfulness and quiet composure. Ever the diplomat.

That look. He wasn’t even sure Christian knew he was doing it most of the time, but Vincent always found it a distraction. Vincent’s mind thinking only of how Christian would look under different circumstances, biting his lip  with his eyes fixed on Vincent.

“I think…” Christian said, eyes still set in his contemplative gaze at the ceiling. “That I’m trying to say it was inevitable, me and you.”

Vincent stared at the geometric pattern on the rug beneath Christian’s feet, tracing the lines and circles with his eyes. Something to hold his focus so the jumbled-up emotions churning inside of him didn’t all explode outward in one giant burst.

“I tried to fight what I felt for a long time, you know.” Christian said. “For a lot of reasons, but partly because I didn’t want us to go through all of this. Relationships are complicated. Relationships with teammates even more so. Because...football is rarely fair.”

A deep breath before Christian continued, his voice stronger now, more composed and rational. More truly Christian.

“I’ve seen the worst of what this decision—career versus relationship—can do to people. Someone’s always left hurting. It’s easy to tell yourself you can be a professional and make a career move, no problems. But when the choice actually comes it’s not as easy as all that. I swore I’d never put myself in that situation, but…”

“But here you are.” Vincent’s tone more biting than he intended, but he didn’t care.

“Yeah. Here I am. Because no matter what I did or what I thought I wanted, it turns out I was wrong. You asked me that night what I wanted this to be. But of course, there wasn’t a choice. Not for me. No matter what I told myself, it was always going to be this, Vince.”

“Even though you wish it wasn’t? That you’d never made this choice?”

“Is that what you think?” Christian’s words exploded out in a rush, far from the careful, calculated tone he tended to use in these sorts of conversations.

Vincent raised his eyes from the floor and turned toward Christian, not trusting himself to meet Christian’s gaze. Not that staring at Christian’s chest or the sharp angles of his hipbones as they curved into long legs was much better.

“What am I supposed to think? I tell you I’m messed up about whether or not I should leave and you tell me you wish you weren’t in this situation. It’s not like I planned any of this. Do you think this isn’t tearing me apart? That it’s easy to shrug and walk away from this city and my friends and my dreams and…and _you_?”

His voice broke as he swallowed down the lump in his throat to choke out the last words. Closer to a whisper, and he could barely hear over the rush of his own blood in his ears. “Don’t you think I wish that I could stay, Chris?”

In an instant, Christian’s arms were around him. Holding him close. Warm hand rubbing small circles on his back and lips pressing small kisses at his temples. Vincent tried to pull away from him, to push Christian back because what right did he have to comfort Vincent after telling him he wished he’d never chosen to be here, but Christian held on tight against Vincent’s struggles.

“Oh, Vince. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to say any of this was your fault. Or that I regret any of it.”

Christian’s words vibrated against Vincent’s temples, buzzing through his skull, roaring through his head and cutting through his jumbled-up thoughts. He turned his face toward Christian’s at the insistent press of a hand alongside his jaw and found blue eyes locked on his as Christian pressed their foreheads together.

“Never, ever, for one second think I haven’t loved every single moment of our time together,” Christian said. “Or that I won’t love every single moment we can find together from now on. Wherever in the world we end up.”


	2. Roads That Lead Away From This

Friday, 25 August, 2017 — Enfield Training Centre, London, England

 

Vincent’s phone buzzed against his thigh as it rang out from the pocket of his jogging pants.

At the sound, Christian’s eyes widened, and he jerked his head away from his conversation with Davinson—Tottenham’s brand new signing; another Ajax standout—and toward Vincent.

Vincent smiled at him and held his hand up as he slid the phone out of his pocket.

Not his agent’s number, he noted as he slid his finger along the screen to accept the call.

“Hello?”

“Vincent.” Advocaat’s voice. National team business, then.

“Ah, _goedemiddag, meneer_.” Vincent caught Christian’s eye and pointed to the hallway before stepping out to continue his call.

The usual business.

How are you? We’ve placed you on the final squad for camp on Monday. Confirming all the dates, times, and places. The call a formality at this point, but Vincent accepted with the polite graciousness expected. Made note of the details. Offered his thanks for the opportunity. See you in a few days, sir.

He rang off and turned back toward the dressing room, but stopped himself short. All the conversation for the past quarter of an hour had been about Ajax. How were things at the club? Were certain staff members still there? What was the same? What changed? Talk about Amsterdam. He’d get enough about all of that over the next two weeks as he trained with the national team. It wasn’t that he hadn’t been welcome in the conversation or Davinson wasn’t cheerful and friendly. He just wasn’t in the mood.

He made his way toward the first team lounge and dropped into one of the chairs, staring out the floor-to-ceiling windows at the grounds of the Enfield Training Complex. Sprawling green pitches interspersed with trees and hedges. Beyond, far in the distance, North London’s surroundings beginning to glint golden as the day moved toward sunset.

Vincent couldn’t wait to see the end of the day. It had started the same as any other—early workout, a gym session, then tactics and positioning before lunch. Afterward, as he headed back out to the pitch, Pochettino had called him into his office for a talk.

He hadn’t missed the expressions on the faces of all of his teammates. Various degrees of pity. Apologetic glances from Jan and Toby. Michel trying for encouragement, but failing miserably, making Vincent’s heart twist in his chest, the blood pounding in his ears as his pulse quickened. This meeting would never go well. The beginning of the end. Everyone knew.

Christian’s face a subtle mixture of anguish and panic—only obvious if you knew where to look—that Vincent was sure he mirrored with his own, despite his best efforts to concentrate on his breathing and remain calm.

Inside the office he’d been greeted with handshakes and warm smiles from Pochettino and Jesús. Kind and welcoming, though their words anything but.

 _Offered to a number of clubs. Options with Stoke, West Bromwich, and possibly Brighton. Allowed to leave Spurs on loan_.

The words echoed in his mind for the rest of the day. Allowed. Implying somehow that he’d asked for this. That he wanted to go. A child begging for permission. Being asked to leave, rather. Leaving strongly suggested. Please go, Vincent, you’re not doing yourself or us any good here. We’d rather cut our losses and try again, thank you very much.

He’d nodded, mumbled something about considering his options and thanks for filling him in, and stumbled out the door and onto the pitch, ignoring Christian’s questioning glances. The subtle worry in his eyes as Vincent joined his teammates for training. Vincent had pasted on a grin and laughed and joked with them all. Pretending it might not be for the last time.

Christian had tried to ask him about the meeting, but he’d waved it off. Nothing pressing. He knew Christian hadn’t believed him, but he also knew Christian wouldn’t force a conversation. Not here.

Vincent leaned back in his chair, dropping back against the headrest as he stared up at the London sky. How many more days did he have in this city? How many more nights with Christian curled beside him as he lay awake in the dark?

Christian had hardly left his side for the past five days since their near argument after the Chelsea match, the two of them spending even more time together than usual. Not that Vincent minded, of course. He loved having Christian within arm’s reach, both of them determined to make the most of every last moment.

They carried out the routine of life together, side-by-side. Woke up curled around each other. Soft, lazy kisses in the morning sunlight turning into something more urgent. A need to taste one another. To touch and nip and suck and press together one more time. Stay in bed until the last possible moment before dragging themselves apart. Dress for the day. Drive to training. Push themselves to the limit and give their all for the club until the sun hung low in the sky.

At night, sore and exhausted from the day, they drove home—to Vincent’s apartment or Christian’s house, it didn’t matter. Catch up on the television shows they’d missed or the next episodes of the Danish police drama Christian kept making Vincent watch under the guise of ‘helping him learn Danish.’ Press themselves closer together on the sofa until neither of them could hold back any longer, and they’d collapse into one another in a fury of lips and tongues and teeth and hands. Cast aside items of clothing on their way to the bedroom where they’d fall into another comfortable rhythm. A shared shower to wash off the stickiness of sweat and sex. Back to bed where they’d collapse together again, this time into the quiet lull before sleep. Vincent laying awake in the dark listening to Christian’s shallow breathing deepen as he curled tighter against Vincent’s side.

In the morning, they’d wake up and do it all again. Until one day soon, they probably wouldn’t.

A voice behind him shook Vincent from his thoughts. Kevin. Hushed German, but his tone remained firm.

Vincent turned in his chair. Kevin leaned against one of the stark white walls of the first team lounge, his phone pressed to his ear.

“West Bromwich,” Kevin said in English a few minutes later, dropping into the chair next to Vincent’s. “They want me to play left back. Which is…well, it’s minutes, but I’m not a left back.”

Vincent didn’t say anything, just flashed Kevin the most reassuring smile he could muster. Not that he could find much reassurance for anyone these days.

“So. New defender,” Kevin said.

“Yeah. Davinson. He’s…” What did you say in this situation? _He’s skilled, Kevin. Stiff competition. One more person between you and first team minutes. You might not even make the bench once he’s had a few weeks of training._

“He’s very good. Lots of talent. Fast. Smart. Worse, he’s a nice guy. Not even any hard feelings toward him. He comes in to replace you and you want to dislike him a bit, _ja_? _Well, at least he’s kind of a twat_ , you know?”

“ _Ja_ ,” Vincent said. Because what else could he say.

“They want you, as well. West Bromwich. My agent mentioned it. Almost as if…perhaps I could be convinced if I had someone I knew with me.”

Kevin let out a small laugh under his breath. “Here we are. Sitting here while life at Tottenham happens around us. The players nobody wanted. Hotspur misfits. Maybe we _should_ go to West Bromwich. Or Stoke. Sexy Stoke, they say, although I have no idea why.”

Vincent returned Kevin’s laugh. “Well I don’t know. I’ve been to each of them once, and you know how it is. Board the coach. Headphones on. Sleep most of the way. They’re in the north, yes? Close to Manchester?”

Kevin frowned for a few moments, concentrating, then held up both hands, holding his right hand steady and gesturing up and to the left with his other. “Maybe…here. Not as far. Manchester is here.” A wave further up and to the left.

Vincent slid his phone out of his pocket and typed in the unlock code, flicking at the screen until he got to the maps icon.

Kevin leaned over and swiped at Vincent’s screen. “Here. West Bromwich.” He clicked on the entry and they both stared at the screen until the little arrow zoomed to the correct location.

“That’s near…” Vincent trailed off, scanning the map for a city he recognized. “Nothing? How far is this from London?”

Vincent tapped the icon for directions and asked it for navigation from Enfield. “Close to 200km. Two hours, it says.”

“That’s not bad, really.”

“It’s not good, eh? Two hours drive. Four hours each way. When does anyone have that much time off?”

Kevin nodded. “It’s not exactly ‘stopping by’ distance, true. I’m worried about Sonny, mostly. I told him I’d be there for him whenever he needed anything, but...”

“I know what you mean,” Vincent said. The words he’d spoken to Christian in November, on the night his whole world had changed echoed in his brain. _From now on, Chris, anything you need, no matter how big or how small, call me, and I’ll be there for you, I promise._

A promise.

Two hours away.

Kevin stood and stretched. “I should go. Try to figure out how to break the news about this West Bromwich deal in case they accept my terms.”

He dropped his hand to Vincent’s shoulder. “I wouldn’t worry too much about things. I know your situation is a bit more…let’s say…complicated, but I have a feeling it will work out. I’ll see you tomorrow, I think.” He flashed Vincent a smile as he headed out the door.

Vincent stared down at the phone in his hand for a few seconds before flicking at the screen. He typed _Tottenham Hotspur transfer rumours_ into the search bar, his finger poised above the magnifying glass to complete the search. He knew better than to read the newspapers. Knew most of the transfer rumours were wild speculation by journalists trying to sell a story or gain a few more clicks.

He clicked anyway.

 

##  **TOTTENHAM TRANSFER NEWS: LATEST ON SERGE AURIER AND VINCENT JANSSEN**

 

His name. Transfer news.

Don’t click it, Vince, he told himself. _If there was news Patrick would have called._

He scrolled farther down the screen. Dozens of articles about Davinson. Speculation about Kevin.

He scrolled back up, staring down at his name in the headline. Latest. Transfer news. Vincent Janssen.

Vincent scrolled a few more times. Scanning for his name. Maybe if he searched for himself—and somehow he’d ended up at a place where he was Googling himself. Fantastic.

The thing of it was that Vincent didn’t know what he hoped to find. No news meant no change, but it also meant he was stuck. Not that living in London, training with Spurs, and spending his nights with Christian was a terrible place to be stuck, but it wasn’t the regular playing time and chance to find his form he needed right now.

Footsteps behind him and Christian’s voice calling to him in soft Dutch. “ _Wat doe je_? I’ve been looking for you.”

“I…” Vincent spun around and found himself staring into Christian’s face, which hovered above his right shoulder. Jan and Toby stood behind him. “ _Hallo_.”

He leaned in and pressed his forehead against Christian’s for a second, the gesture intimate yet reserved enough for the middle of the training centre.

“You rushed off,” Christian said, continuing the conversation in Dutch. “Your meeting with the gaffer earlier and then you get a sudden phone call. I was worried.”

Vincent flashed him what he hoped was a reassuring grin. “National team business. Nothing to worry about.”

He’d have to tell Christian about his meeting some time, of course. How he’d be allowed to leave. Interest from other clubs. Spurs had put him on offer. _Start preparing for the end, Chris. Our days together are numbered whether we want them to be or not. But don’t worry, I’m only two hours away. It’s only two roads._

Two roads. Away from everything he’d worked for. Everything he wanted. Everything he loved.

Vincent pushed himself out of the chair. “Are you ready to go home? It’s been a long day.”

“About that,” Christian responded. “Toby and Jan were thinking we could take Dav out tonight. Official welcome to the club. Welcome the new Eredivisie initiate.”

Dinner with the new signing. A celebration.

A reminder that his whole life was changing. Last year’s exciting new signing a spectacular failure. Let’s try again. Someone from a real club this time. A club people have heard of. A club that knows how to win.

For each new teammate brought in, someone else on their way out.

What would happen in a week when he was the new signing somewhere? Who would take him to dinner? Welcome him to the club. Show him around…whatever there was to see in West Bromwich or Stoke.

If he was being honest he wasn’t up for a night out. Wasn’t ready to sit with his new teammate and tell him how much he would love the club. How great life at Spurs was. How lucky they all were to be a part of it.

If he was being honest, he wasn’t sure he had anything nice to say right now.

On the other hand, this could be his last night with his teammates. His friends.

Christian, Toby, and Jan had welcomed him into their lives like he belonged there. Surrounding him in laughter and jokes and animated Dutch. An instant member of their odd little found family.

“Vince?” Christian’s voice pulling him back to the present.

“Sorry, what?”

Christian’s hand on his back comforting and warm between his shoulder blades. “Dinner?”

Vincent shook his head. “I’m not really up for it, I don’t think. But thanks. It’s been a long day. Besides that. Dinner with four former Ajax players? No thanks. Sounds like the beginning of a bad joke. Four _Goedenzonen_ and a _Kaaskop_ walk into a bar. 1” His small laugh sounded forced and hollow to his ears.

“When you put it that way…” Toby flashed him a grin. “Suit yourself. We’ll try to have Chris home at a decent hour.”

“I think I’ll call it a night too, if it’s okay with you boys. Vincent’s right. It has been a long day.”

“ _Christiaan—_ ”, Toby started, but Vincent cut him off, narrowing his eyes at Christian.

“A minute ago you were coming in here to let me know you were going out and now you’re changing your mind?”

“I’d rather just head home if you’re not up for a night out. Stay in. We can curl up under a blanket and not come out until tomorrow morning.”

“As appealing as that sounds, and trust me, it sounds plenty appealing, you should go. Spend time with your new teammate. Get to know him. Welcome him in. Like you all did for me.”

“Vincent,” Christian said, the familiar note of sympathy beginning to creep into his voice. “He’s your teammate, too.”

Vincent just about managed to hold in his laugh. “For now, I suppose. Honestly, Chris, I won’t be the best company tonight for anyone. Go out. Have fun. Don’t worry about me.”

“Plenty of opportunities to get to know everyone later. Right now I have to get in all the time with you I can before we’re in different countries and all I get is a few minutes a day on FaceTime.”

The words Christian left unspoken hung heavy between them. _Before you leave and never come back_.

“Christian, please just go.” Vincent’s voice harsher than he’d intended as the words flew out of him in a rush.

Please just go. Live your life without me because in a few days that’s the only life you’re going to have.

“Vince.” Christian’s voice soft, filled with the pitying tone Vincent was growing to hate. He felt Christian’s hand on his arm, and he shoved it away.

“Go out. Have fun. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He stepped past the trio and toward the door.

“Vincent,” Christian called after him. “I’ll come over later. After dinner.”

Vincent stopped walking and turned toward Christian. “Wherever you’re going must be closer to your place than mine. No sense coming all the way back up here. I’ll see you at training tomorrow.”

Ignoring Christian’s calls for him to stop, he picked up the pace toward the door, not slowing his steps until he reached his car.

Climbing in, he yanked his phone from his pocket and jabbed at the screen until the angry screams of his Dutch punk playlist blasted out at him from the speakers. He shifted into gear, shoved his foot down onto the accelerator, and rushed out of the carpark toward home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Here, Vincent is using the team names for Ajax and AZ to make a joke. They roughly translate to "Sons of the Gods" and "Cheesehead", so essentially Vincent says "Four Sons of the Gods and a Cheesehead walk into a bar." This is my terrible attempt at humour. It's fine. The Dutch aren't known for their knee-slapping hilarity.


	3. I'm Following Myself

Friday, 25 August, 2017 — London, England

When he reached his apartment, Vincent immediately collapsed onto his sofa. Alone. The space beside him enormous without Christian filling it. A gaping hole in the routine of his life.

 _Get used to it, Vincent_. _Remember all those nights in your apartment in Almere. Just you and the sofa you used most of your first month’s wages to buy_. One small luxury he’d allowed himself in life. Other things followed, of course, but the sofa had been the first. Something to make him feel like a real footballer. A real adult.

He could be alone. Not long ago he’d spent most of his nights right here in this spot doing…what?

Browsing social media and watching television. The same things he did now but without another person beside him. Someone to make this into a space for two instead of one, even though Christian remained adamant that he didn’t live there. Always packing spare clothes in a small bag. Not so much as leaving his own toothbrush in the bathroom.

To Vincent, however, Christian was an integral part of this space. He flicked a glance toward the kitchen—two high chairs side by side at the counter. The sofa—center seat where Christian usually curled in beside him. The bedroom behind him…

And that was enough of that. He sucked in a deep breath until his lungs wouldn’t hold anymore air, then let it all out in a rush before pushing himself to his feet. He needed to do something. Needed a distraction from the day.

Food, maybe. He didn’t feel hungry, but he knew he’d regret not trying to put something together. Not that he had food in the house. Which meant ordering in.

 _Keep up that physique, Vince_ , he thought. _Stay in shape_.

He had the World Cup to think about, after all.

He pulled open his refrigerator to find a half a carton of milk for coffee, some butter, a bag of lettuce he didn’t remember buying, and three bottles of Christian’s weird Danish fitness water.

Even his refrigerator filled with Christian.

He pulled out the lettuce and one of the waters, unscrewing the cap and taking a drink. His face twisting into a pucker as his eyes squinted shut. Overwhelmingly citrus with a hint of…something. A bitterness. Slight metallic tang in the back of his throat. It wasn’t undrinkable, but it definitely wasn’t good. Still, it reminded him of Christian. The taste lingering on Christian’s tongue whenever Vincent kissed him after training.

He set the bottle down on the counter and pulled open the cupboard. At least he’d find some pasta—Christian’s again. Not exciting, but at least he could manage it.

Water in a pot until it boils. A handful of pasta. Salt in the water. Eight minutes. A routine. He’d learned it as a teenager trying to fend for himself in the big city 100km from his home. Now he had team chefs and dietitians and meal plans, but he could still do this. The night before every match. _Pasta met kip_. The way he’d done back home. The way Christian loved it.

The chicken was frozen. He debated going without it, but heard his dietitian’s voice yelling at him about the importance of eating in balance, so he pulled the chicken out of the freezer and shoved it in a second pot of water.

Going through the motions. The routine of his life.

Vincent scanned his kitchen while he waited for the water to boil. Strange appliances he’d never even pulled off the shelf. A fancy, electric juicer that had come with the kitchen. As if he’d ever have the time to buy fruit and squeeze it himself instead of just picking up a freshly squeezed juice while he was out.

Cupboards full of dishes he never used, because when would he have enough people in his apartment to warrant twelve plates? He didn’t even have a kitchen table, just pulling the stools around to the counter or eating on the sofa most nights.

At least when it came time to pack up his belongings it wouldn’t take long. A few suitcases full of clothes. Whatever toiletries were in the bathroom cabinets. His entire life in a handful of boxes.

What if he left it all here and started over with nothing? Whatever he could carry in his carry-on and backpack. A wandering football journeyman searching for the place he could call home. What had Kevin called him earlier? One of the players nobody wanted. Sounded about right.

His phone timer rang out to signal the pasta was done. He turned back to the stove and methodically strained the water, then dumped the pasta--too much, he was used to making it for two—into a bowl. He scooped the chicken out of the pot and sliced into it, glad to see it was cooked through.

Not that a little food poisoning would matter much, at least in terms of his inclusion in the match on Sunday. Pochettino might actually be relieved if Vincent couldn’t play. It would save him having to fake any enthusiasm about Vincent’s presence in the matchday squad.

Vincent sliced up the rest of the chicken and tossed it atop the noodles in his bowl. He grabbed the bag of lettuce he’d pulled from the refrigerator and stared at it. Salad? Except as far as he could tell he had no other vegetables. Plain lettuce in a bowl wasn’t a salad, it was sad. He frowned at the lettuce, yanked a handful out of the bag, and dropped it on top of his pasta, where it immediately wilted.

Vincent grabbed the bowl, headed into the living room, and dropped onto the sofa, shoving a forkful of the pasta into his mouth on the way. Bland and flavourless. Oddly comforting in its nothingness except that hot lettuce was even worse than he’d expected.

 

When the news started two hours later, Vincent turned the television off and stood up. He wondered how the dinner with Davinson was going. They’d probably be wrapping up by now. Maybe he could send Christian a text. See if he wanted to FaceTime before bed.

He glanced down at the remains of his own dinner, long abandoned on the coffee table. Now a mess of cold noodles in congealed butter with a pile of terrible wilted lettuce shoved off to one side of the bowl. He grabbed it and walked to the kitchen, scraping the contents into the trash before dumping the bowl into the sink. He’d wash it later and set it with its mates in the cabinet. Ready for their next owner.

Maybe whoever moved in would have cause to use the full set.

He drifted into his bedroom, switching on the lamp beside the bed and doing his best to ignore the lightweight blankets crumpled in a heap on the bed.  Shoved aside in the haste of the morning once he and Christian had dragged themselves apart and raced to dress for training. Christian’s pillow pressed up against his own, covered, he knew, in the woody, earthy, spicy smell of Christian’s Tom Ford cologne mingled with the hints of citrus and mint from Christian’s shampoo.

Maybe he would sleep on the sofa tonight. Curl up under a blanket and not emerge until morning, like Christian had suggested. Except that it didn’t sound nearly as appealing when he considered doing it alone.

Nothing did, really.

Might as well start getting ready for National Team camp. Most of his gear would be handed to him when he arrived, but he’d have the inevitable extra appearances and nights out, and it wouldn’t do for him to keep showing up in some combination of training gear and the clothing he’d worn over on the plane.

Vincent retrieved his suitcase from his closet and started stuffing clothing into it. Jeans, shoes, a few t-shirts. Not bothering to check if any of it matched. Ordinarily that would grate on him, but today he didn’t care. He crammed the suitcase full and turned back to his closet.

Shirts on hangers. Jeans folded on their shelves. Shoe rack full. So many things collected over the past year in London on shopping trips with teammates or ill-advised internet purchases in the middle of the night when he couldn’t sleep.

He rifled through all of it. T-shirts, dress shirts, long-sleeved shirts. All of those he pulled from the closet and tossed onto the bed, hangers and all. For now, he’d get it all folded and set aside. See about getting some boxes tomorrow.

Cram his entire life into boxes and shove them into the corner where they would await shipping labels. New life. New home at some unknown address in some unknown place he couldn’t even point to on a map.

Back to the closet. More hangers. A collection of training tops and Spurs branded gear. A reminder of what he’d dreamed of for so many years. Some of it he’d purchased before he’d ever thought he had a chance of signing with Spurs. Back when he was a boy with a dream.

He shoved it all to the side of the closet. Maybe he’d leave it here. Drop it off with the equipment managers or something. Bin it, if nothing else. A clean start. No reminders of his failed life.

Right. As if he’d ever forget what he’d had and lost.

He tossed himself to the bed, avoiding the pile of shirts and hangers. Lying sideways across it and staring up at his bedroom ceiling. He’d spent a lot of nights this way--some with Christian laying beside him and many more before that, wondering whether Christian would ever sort out his feelings.

As he lay in the bed now, the lamp on the table beside his head casting the room in a soft, yellow glow, he wondered if maybe Christian hadn’t been right. If maybe things would have been better if they’d fought their feelings and insisted this thing between them was friendship and nothing more. If Vincent had never asked Christian to choose.

Then again, the last half year had been beyond anything Vincent had ever hoped for. How could he ever regret anything that had happened, no matter how difficult the end might be? For the rest of his life, no matter where he ended up, Vincent would treasure every moment he’d spent with Christian—every kiss, every touch, and every secret glance across the training pitch—and he would carry the memories with him wherever he went.

Maybe — maybe — that was enough.

He started at the sound of a door opening and closing. The clink of keys dropping to the table beside the door.

“Vince?” Christian’s voice.

“Chris? What are you doing here?” Vincent pulled himself to a sitting position and was about to slide off the bed when Christian’s head appeared around the opening to the bedroom door.

“I left my car here. I had Jan drop me at home after dinner, but I thought about how I’d have to get a taxi to training tomorrow, and I figured I may as well come back up here now when traffic is less of a nightmare. This way I can sleep in a bit.”

Christian wrinkled his nose as he took in the the piles of clothing strewn about the bed and the floor. “What are you doing?”

“Packing.”

Christian leaned against the doorframe and took another glance around the room. “Packing for what?”

“National team camp at first. And then…sorta…everything. But I don’t have any boxes.”

“Boxes?”

“For all my things. So I can move them.”

Christian’s eyes widened and the colour drained from his already pale face.

He stepped into the room and stood in front of the bed, staring down at Vincent. “I knew there was something about your meeting earlier you weren’t telling me. You’re leaving then? Where? Is it a loan or…?”

Vincent grabbed both of Christian’s hands and squeezed them tight. “You’re right that the meeting wasn’t exactly nothing, but it’s not anything definite. At least not yet. The club have offered me for transfer. A few clubs are interested. I’ll be ‘allowed to leave’. Whatever that means. As though I want to or I’m not committed to being here or something. Just in case when I made my choice to move to Tottenham I hadn’t thought it through all the way or something. ‘Oh, Vincent, well you can go if you’ve changed your mind’.”

Christian sat down on the edge of the bed alongside Vincent. “Oh, Vince. I’m…that’s…” A slight tremor in Christian’s voice. Barely noticeable, but Vincent intimately familiar with the slightest shift in Christian’s moods after nearly a year together.

Vincent leaned against Christian’s shoulder, trying to offer both of them some measure of comfort.

“It’s something,” he agreed. “I’m not sure what, exactly. Nothing for now, but…I figured I might as well start getting prepared.”

Christian slid a hand around the small of Vincent’s back, squeezing just above Vincent’s hip. The two sat for a few moments, still and quiet in each other’s presence.

“You don’t have to go, you know,” Christian said, breaking the silence.

“Mmmm.”

No words. No voice. Because he did have to go. Somewhere. Anywhere. It didn’t matter as long as it wasn’t here. The club didn’t care where, as long as he wasn’t their problem anymore. He didn’t care where, because if he wasn’t in London, he may as well be halfway across the world.

He pressed a kiss to Christian’s neck right below his ear, smiling at the soft groan he received in response. His own body tingling with arousal as he breathed in the scent of Christian.

The sharp press of Christian’s fingers on his skin. Vincent leaned in closer, his own hands exploring the lines of Christian’s body, heat pumping between them as Christian’s muscles relaxed beneath Vincent’s hands.

“Are you asking me to stay?” He murmured against Christian’s neck. Christian’s pulse pounding at full speed as Vincent teased it with his tongue.

Vincent’s own pulse quickened in response. Desire tore through his entire body, electric and razor sharp.

Vincent leaned down and nipped at Christian’s neck right above his clavicle, using his nose to shove back the collar of Christian’s thin, white t-shirt.

Christian whipped his head around and captured Vincent’s mouth with his own. Insistent press of lips. Tastes of smoky spices mingled with garlic and lemon as Christian’s own tongue darted in to lick at Vincent’s, and Vincent pressed hard against him.

Christian’s hands running up Vincent’s back beneath his shirt, which Vincent yanked over his head and tossed to the floor alongside the others.

“I’m glad you decided to come back up here tonight,” Vincent managed to choke out as Christian pressed tiny kisses down his neck and chest. Both of them gasping for air. Christian’s hot breath sliding across Vincent’s skin, and Vincent let out a stuttering moan.

“Bad enough you made me go to dinner without you after you spent all afternoon sitting around the training centre flashing me all your sexy, tortured looks,” Christian replied, and then his tongue teased at Vincent’s nipple and any retort Vincent might have had flew from his mind.

Christian’s mouth hot and wet against his skin. Vincent’s body writhing in response.

His hands twisted in Christian’s hair, soft silk twining through his fingers.

Smooth fabric of Christian’s shirt against Vincent’s chest and he clawed at the material. Tugging at it until Christian pulled back, a chill against Vincent’s bare chest where it had been wrapped in Christian’s warmth.

The ripple of abs and shoulders as Christian dragged the shirt over his head. Soft blond hairs across his chest glowing gold in the lamplight. Sleek lines and smooth curves. Lean muscles trembling beneath Vincent’s hand.

Thumbs running along trail of coarse hair leading to the waistband of Christian’s boxers. Christian’s hips pressing them into the bed and Vincent’s hips jerking upward involuntarily.

Christian’s breath hitched before he fell back onto Vincent. Hands raking through Vincent’s hair, their bodies burning hot and slick with sweat as they moved against one another.

Pulse pounding in his ears. Christian sucking hard at his clavicle, the scratch of stubble electric against his chest and Vincent slammed his eyes shut as a shudder rolled through him. Christian’s lithe body beneath his hands, and nothing else mattered but Christian’s tongue against his skin.

Christian’s hands shoving at the elastic of his shorts and Vincent arched his back, sliding backward until—

A sharp jab of cold metal and wood against Vincent’s ribs, and Vincent let out an involuntary yelp, his eyes flying open.

Christian jerked backward, off of Vincent, falling to his knees beside the bed.

“ _Wat? Oke?_ ”

Vincent closed his eyes and tried to catch his breath. “ _Ja_. _Oke_. Just…”

He slid to the side and yanked the offending hanger out from beneath him, tossing it and the shirt it held to the floor.

“Oh,” Christian said, glancing around at the pile of shirts and their hangers. “Um. Maybe we should…put all this away. Free up the bed for…other things.”

Vincent huffed out a breath. Here they were, shirtless and sweating, pressed against one another, and Christian wanted to stop and put all the clothing back in the closet.

Typical, actually. Practical to the last, even in the midst of what was shaping up to be some truly phenomenal sex. He had no idea how Christian managed it.

He rolled to the side and started to sit up. Once he freed himself of the tangle of fabric and hangers at the foot of the bed, he reached over and shoved everything from the bed onto the floor in one movement.

“There,” he said, pulling Christian back to the bed and nipping at his bare chest, earning him a squeak and a laugh from Christian who reached over to tug Vincent closer against him. “That’s dealt with, then.”


	4. One Last Time and I'll Be Strong

Sunday, 27 August, 2017 — Wembley Stadium, London, England

“Here we go.” Christian flashed Vincent a grin as they stepped into the corridors of Wembley Stadium. “Last match before the break. One more round at Wembley. I feel good about this one.”

“Here’s hoping.”

In truth, Vincent didn’t much care. Sure, he wanted a win for the club. He always wanted a win. He’d come to Spurs because they knew how to win. A place he could lift trophies while training alongside some of the best players in the league.

For him though, it would be another day of watching his teammates from his seat at the back of the reserves’ bench wondering why he’d bothered to get dressed for the match. Just in case Pochettino needed a last second substitution to waste some time.

He followed Christian to the dressing room, taking a few seconds to collect himself before stepping after him through the door. A deep breath. Hands clenched into fists until fingernails bit at his palm. Another breath. Put a smile on your face, Vincent. Pretend you’re more than thrilled to be here.

He shoved the door open, greeted by the noisy buzz of excited voices and cheerful laughter from his teammates.

“Vince!” Mousa tossed a rolled up ball of athletic tape at him. It bounced off his arm and he rolled his eyes and shook his head as he made his way to his locker.

“When are you leaving?” Mousa asked. “Most of us are off first thing tomorrow so we were thinking we’d go out after training.”

He held up a hand, silencing Vincent’s protests before he could even make them. “I promise we won’t stay out long. We’ll have you home and in bed nice and early so you can get in a full night of relaxation before the break.”

One last night in London curled up around Christian until the sunrise forced them out of bed and taxis carried them away from one another.

“I don’t know…” Vincent’s protest cut off by Christian’s yell from across the room where he was deep in conversation with Ben.

“ _Niet optioneel_ , Vince.”

Ben pulled a face at Christian. “Oi. What if just one time I stop mid-conversation and start shouting about the dressing room in Welsh?”

Christian shrugged, switching back to English. “Fine with me. Not sure who you’d be talking to, but you should do what you want.”

“Don’t be a wanker,” Ben said, crossing his arms.

Vincent couldn’t help but grin over at them. One last night out didn’t sound so bad, really. He’d miss all of his friends, not just Christian. A London farewell with some of the best friends he could hope for was worth missing a few hours of time alone with Christian.

All of them together one last time.

The finality weighing heavy on him. Crushing him under the realisation that this was the last time he would do any of this. One last time in this dressing room. One last training session. One last time stepping onto the pitch as a member of Tottenham Hotspur.

One last night with his beautiful _Christiaan_.

Vincent shook himself from his thoughts and turned back to Mousa. “Apparently I’ll be there.”

“ _Goed_. Chris is right. It isn’t optional.” Mousa’s hand warm on his shoulder. Voice low. “You’re a good person, Vince. And a good player. Whatever happens from here on out, I know you’ll do great things. For now…just…try to enjoy it, _oke_? No matter what.”

Vincent turned a smile to Mousa. “ _Dank je wel. Vor alles_.”

Mousa wrapped Vincent in a hug and headed to his own locker to finish dressing for the match. Vincent followed suit, dropping to the bench in front of his locker.

Socks on his feet, one at a time. Boots on. Laces tied. Same routine he’d been performing ever since he was old enough to lace his own boots. This much, at least, was familiar no matter what his surroundings. No matter the colours of his kit or the badge on the front.

_Try to enjoy it, Vincent. Don’t think about the future or where you’ll be next week or any of it. Right now, you play for Tottenham Hotspur at Wembley Stadium. Right now you’re living the life you could only dream of a few short years ago. Put on your kit. Lace your boots. Step onto the field. Enjoy every last second._

Christian slid onto the bench beside him, and Vincent resisted the urge to pull him in close. To run a hand through soft hair and down Christian’s neck.

 _Do you know how much I’m going to miss you_?

“One last time,” Vincent said. “After all we’ve been through, here we are. Down to this.”

Christian shrugged. “Another match.”

“Christian,” Vincent didn’t bother to keep his voice down. “You know this isn’t just another match. You know this might be the last time. The last time I put on this shirt. The last time…” _On the field with you_ , he wanted to say, but his words caught in his throat.

The press of Christian’s forehead against his. Slender fingers sliding in to intertwine with his own. A surprisingly intimate gesture from Christian. This much physical contact outside the privacy of their respective homes. Letting others in on what Christian so desperately tried to keep secret.

“Nothing definite.” Christian’s words a whisper. His breath warm against Vincent’s cheek.

Vincent pulled away, but didn’t let go of Christian’s hand. “It’s easier this way. Thinking of it as the last time. Not just ‘another match’. At least this way I can appreciate the significance.”

 

A draw that felt like a loss. Vincent’s last match in a Tottenham shirt—for as much as he could regard it as such considering he hadn’t seen a single second of play—and he couldn’t even leave the club on a high note.

The mood in the dressing room somber. Defeated. A hint of frustrated anger over all of it. Burnley equalised in the 91st minute. No one wanting to say the words “Wembley curse” but all of them thinking it somewhere in the back of their minds.

Jovial laughter and exuberant shouts turned to polite conversation and half-hearted banter as the players showered, dressed, and got ready to fly off to their respective countries for the week, only a few staying back in London to get in a bit of training.

Kevin a few metres away, holding two boot bags as he waited for Sonny to finish getting dressed and ready to go. Vincent caught his eye and smiled.

 

_“Off to Stoke in the morning,” Kevin had said as he slipped into the seat behind Vincent on the substitutes’ bench. Kevin not in the lineup, but Pochettino had given him a place right behind the bench. “So I guess this is goodbye.”_

_Goodbye. One more teammate gone. One out, one more to go. As soon as another striker could be convinced to sign on._

_“Stoke.” Was all Vincent could manage. “Sexy Stoke, right?”_

_Kevin had laughed. “That is what they say. I’m not sure if I will bring the sexy level up or down, to be honest.”_

_Vincent’s turn to laugh, although the sound was hollow. “Well. Either way. I wish you well._ Succes _…or, um…I guess…” he hesitated, searching for the correct phrase in his rudimentary understanding of German. “_ Viel Glück _. Right?”_

_“Close enough.” Kevin grinned. “Same to you. Wherever life takes you.”_

_Vincent pressed his lips together for a moment. Wherever life takes him indeed._

_“Who knows,” Vincent said. “Maybe to Stoke with you. I would bring the sexy up for sure.”_

_Another laugh from Kevin. “You know, I have no arguments about that.”_

 

Standing in the dressing room for the last time, watching his teammates, things began to sink in. The finality of it all. This team, together for the last time. It happened, Vincent knew. Players moved. Teammates and friends left, new teammates came and became new friends. It was all part of the game. All part of this life he’d chosen.

Last time he’d been the one leaving, although it had been easier. He’d gone out on a high note as the league’s top scorer. Finished out the season with his team--a small bit of closure. On top of that, he’d been leaving for England. For Spurs. The club of his dreams and the chance of a lifetime.

This year was different. Sure, it was another team with a chance to start over, but this time he didn’t want it. This time he’d had it all to lose…and lost it.

Still, it was inevitable. In both football and life things change. Enjoy what you have while you have it and move on to the next thing. New club. New life. New start. They were professionals, and this is what they did. Football brought people together, forged inseparable bonds, in many ways built makeshift families. But when it all shook out, it was a job. A career. And the job had to come first.

He knew this, but it didn’t make things hurt less.

“Ready to go?” Christian asked, slipping a hand onto Vincent’s shoulder.

Christian fresh out of the shower, his hair damp at the edges and clinging to his forehead, now changed into his street clothes. Distressed jeans tight around his thighs, plain white T beneath his black leather jacket, collar pulled high. Undeniably Christian.

“Hmm? Oh. Dinner. Right.”

“Don’t even try to tell me you’re not going. I’m not going to let you spend the last night before break sulking around your apartment again. Who knows what I might walk into this time. A pile of shoes by the front door. All the furniture shoved to one side of the room.”

“No, I’m going. It will be nice. A last celebration before we all go our separate ways. Is everyone coming or just a few of us?”

Christian shrugged. “I’m not sure who’s up for it. You and I have short flights, but Sonny is flying to Seoul and Davinson to Colombia. It’s a long way, so I could see them wanting a rest.”

He threw an arm around Vincent’s shoulders, trying to keep the gesture casual, though his fingers skimmed at the top of Vincent’s shirt, pressing into the stiff muscles where shoulder met neck. Vincent leaned into the contact, his own arm slipping around Christian’s waist and pulling him a bit closer.

Appropriately casual. Two friends heading out for a week away. Nothing that gave away Vincent’s shuddering desire to wrap his arms around Christian and kiss him until neither of them can breathe. To press Christian against the wall or duck into the nearest empty storage closet and surround himself with nothing but Christian.

Instead, he slid a hand just under the bottom of Christian’s jacket, and grinned over at him. The two of them laughing and sneaking sidelong glances at one another as they walked in step down the corridor to the car park.


	5. Say You'll Miss Me

Sunday, 27 August, 2017 — London, England

Dinner, it turned out, meant most of the first team squad, plus their significant others, in one giant, chaotic group. They’d rented out the private room of the restaurant Toby and Mousa selected—a two-floor trattoria in Highbury not far from Christian’s house.

They split up into tables of eight or so, the room echoing with the buzz of voices, the clinking of glassware, and the scrape of cutlery across plates.

Christian and Vincent joined by Jan, Toby, and Mousa along with their significant others, as well as Ben. The conversation—in English for Ben’s sake, Christian made a show of pointing out, which earned him a glare and a rude gesture from Ben—light and pleasant. Buzz about the break, everyone looking forward to a few days at home, even if most of it would be more training and flights and matches.

Camera phones out. Groups of friends leaning together. Happy, smiling faces huddled together. Arms thrown around one another. Dele bouncing around the room snapping selfies with everyone, a constant stream of posts to his snapchat. Everyone leaning in and grinning. Kisses pressed to cheeks in mock affection as they all laughed and cat-called one another.

Christian not even making a noise of protest at Dele waving them together for a photo. Dropping his arm around Vincent’s shoulders and pulling him closer, and so what if Vincent leaned into the contact slightly more than may have been appropriate.

One last photo of them together. The moment the notification arrived from Dele’s phone Vincent clicked it open and saved it. A reminder of what he’d once had always at his fingertips whenever he needed it. He and Christian together. The strings of white lights overhead casting everything in a dim glow. Christian’s face a genuine smile and Vincent with eyes only for Christian, shy smile of adorations on his face.

Vincent picked at the last remnants of pasta on his plate. All these carbs two nights in a row. He’d be paying for this break from his meal plan when he arrived for training on Monday, but the night out had been worth it. An escape from the tumult of his life, if only for a few hours. No packing or worrying about the future. Nothing but jokes and laughter with some fantastic people.

One last farewell, although he didn’t dare say as much. One last moment before the whole world changed. Around him everyone laughing and happy. Glowing with good food and good wine.

His own mind spinning and twisting. He reached down to grip at the seat of his chair, wishing instead for the feel of Christian’s hand in his own.

He shifted in his chair and his thigh brushed against Christian’s beneath the table. The heat of Christian’s body radiated against Vincent’s leg, and Vincent leaned closer, craving the connection.

He slid his chair closer, trying to be discreet as he shifted his body to hook his ankle with Christian’s, right hand dropping to Christian’s knee beneath the table. Vincent risking the contact, even in this crowded space with teammates on all sides, because tonight he needed it.

His fingers traced a pattern against the torn denim of Christian’s jeans, finding a hole where the denim was frayed and skimming a thumb across it, skin seeking skin. Heat pumping between them as Christian’s body stiffened and his breath hitched at Vincent’s touch.

He worked his finger deeper into the hole, desperate to feel Christian’s skin on his own. Probably ruining Christian’s jean’s, but so desperate for the contact that he didn’t care. Wanted him so much he feels weak with it, lightheaded, as if he’d been without food or water for too long.

He needed to feel Christian’s body beneath his hands. Needed to trace every inch of it, commit everything about Christian to memory. Grey blue eyes sparkling with flecks of gold in the light. The taste of Christian’s skin. The woody, earthy, spicy smell of his cologne mingled with the liquorice smell of his body wash and his mint and citrus shampoo.

Beautiful, long, lean lines when Christian stretched out beneath him, his muscles relaxing beneath the drag of Vincent’s hands. The two of them moving together in the dark, Christian’s body contracting and contorting around Vincent. Whispered words in a beautiful mingling of three languages. Christian’s soft, sharp cries as together they both moved toward climax.

Christian’s hands open on his thighs, palm down. Long, slender fingers, and Vincent pictured those fingers running the length of his torso. Crushing bruises into his skin. Christian pressing Vincent into the mattress, hair in disarray, body glistening with sweat.

Beside him, the soft drag of Christian’s breath at Vincent’s touch and Vincent felt like he was about to burst open. A few moments away from pulling Christian into his lap and kissing him until they’re both senseless and gasping with need, teammates and waitstaff and the rest of the world be damned.

He sucked in air and held it until his lungs were ready to burst, scrabbling for words in the blank space of his brain. Leaned in close and whispered into Christian’s ear. A low murmur, loud enough that Christian could hear him above the general din of the restaurant, but wouldn’t carry past them to the ears of their friends.

“ _Ik vil met je vrijen_.”

The words bold and daring, but the absolute truth.

A moment stretching between them until Christian jerked his face toward Vincent, staring at him as if he were trying to make sense of what Vincent had just said, although Vincent wasn’t sure he anything made much sense in that moment.

Christian’s face flushing pink, then red, as he sunk into the realisation of what Vincent had said.

Fingers slipped in to intertwine with his own beneath the table. Christian’s hand trembling atop his, palm hot and damp. Vincent’s body on a knife edge at even this slight contact.

Vincent drew his hand back to the edge of the table linen to rest on the inside of Christian’s thigh, centimetres from his cock, dragging Christian’s own hand along. A shudder running through Christian’s entire body at the movement.

Christian’s breath stuttering as he squeezed his hand around Vincent’s, begging him not to take it any further, but also willing him to stay right where he was. Vincent complied, digging his fingers into Christian’s leg, burning hot beneath his hand.

Beside him, Christian’s face still bright red, his breath coming in small, hitching gasps as he struggled to keep his calm façade.

“You alright, mate?” Ben’s voice from across the table, and Christian gave him a quick, unconvincing nod.

On Christian’s right, Toby’s lips pressed together with held in laughter. His hand reaching up to ruffle at the back of Christian’s head, and Christian didn’t even bother to shove him away.

Vincent wanted nothing more than to scoop Christian out of his chair and sprint down the stairs, not stopping until he’d covered the two kilometers to Christian’s house. Drop to the sofa, all urgent hands and teeth and hot, wet mouths. Not even bothering to climb the stairs to the bedroom, just discarding clothing as quickly as possible, shoving back into the cushions of the sofa and rocking their bodies together as one.

His heart slammed in his chest and surged in his ears, blocking out the noise of the room. Vaguely aware of Mousa standing beside him. Holding out a bottle of wine.

Mousa’s voice miles away. Snippets of sentences through the storm. “…another round…toast to the break…still early.”

Christian’s face tight, his movements forced as he waved the bottle away, crushing Vincent’s hand in his own. A glance flicked down to his watch and a smile that tried to be apologetic, though his eyes flashed with urgent need.

“I…have to go,” he managed to choke out. “Lots to do before tomorrow. Important.”

This time Toby didn’t bother to hold in his laughter. “You sure you can make it all the way home from here?” he murmured to Christian in Dutch.

Christian’s eyes wide with arousal and held-in discomfort, more pupil than iris. Vincent’s body thrumming with the heat of their shared desire.

“Honestly,” Christian whispered back in broken Dutch, “I don’t know.”

 

They did manage the five minute drive to Christian’s house, but only just, before crashing into one another the moment they crossed the doorway.

Bags and jackets shed in the entry as they kicked off their shoes, all while licking and nipping at any bit of exposed skin they could find, touching and stroking. Tongues swiping together, swollen lips crushing against each other.

The front door slammed shut.

Christian shoved Vincent against the wall beside it, not bothering to stumble the few metres to the living room sofa. Fingers hooking at the waistband of Vincent’s boxers beneath his jeans. Moans trapped in his throat as Christian sucked hard on the spot just beneath his ear that never failed to make his knees tremble.

“ _Christiaan,_ ” he managed to gasp out, the world spinning around him as all his blood rushed to his groin. He grabbed at the doorframe to steady himself, desperately trying to keep from collapsing into a heap by Christian’s front door.

A shudder rolled through his body as Christian gripped his cock through his jeans. Christian kissed him through it, Vincent clutching at Christian’s arms, his heartbeat pounding in his ears.

Vincent tugged at the hem of Christian’s shirt and Christian pulled back just far enough to yank it over his head and toss it away.

Vincent ran his hands along the sweat-soaked muscles of Christian’s back, earning a low rumbling moan from Christian. Body trembling beneath his hands. Sharp, huffing gasps against Vincent's neck. His mouth filled with the salt of Christian’s skin.

Heat burning through Vincent’s body. Christian’s cock digging hard into Vincent’s thigh.

Christian’s hands ripped at the button of Vincent’s jeans. Vincent reached down to help, the two of them fumbling at the button with shaking hands until it finally gave way and Christian yanked jeans and boxers down in one movement, the fabric puddling around Vincent’s ankles.

Plaster of the entryway wall biting cold, and Vincent sucked in a breath at the shock. Sharp contrast to the searing heat coursing through his body.

Tongue swiping at his abdomen. Fingers digging bruises into his hips. Christian’s lips peppering his thighs with kisses, teasing him. The scrape of Christian’s scruff against the sensitive skin of his thighs making Vincent gasp and writhe. Full-body shock running through him as Christian’s mouth closes around his cock.

Hips shoving forward. His hands fisted in Christian’s hair. His throat dry and tight and he tried to remember how to stay upright.

Christian’s fingers pressing bruises into his arse and his hips. Holding him steady. Pushing him backward. The wall unyielding at his back, dragging against his spine. His entire body trembling with pleasure and pain as he slammed his eyes shut. Heat sparking at the base of his spine.

Vincent’s mind filled with nothing but the sensation of Christian swallowing around him. Rough scratch of scruff against his thighs. The drag of teeth against skin, and Vincent’s vision went black and then white as he came apart in Christian’s hands.

 

Later, Vincent awoke surrounded by darkness. Christian’s naked body a warm curl against his side, their legs tangled up together in soft bedcovers. Christian’s breath slow and even against Vincent’s cheek.

Dim light slipping through the cracks in the curtains, casting faint shadows around the room, and glinting off a framed print against the far wall. Christian’s hometown of Middelfart, blanketed in snow. A gift from Christian’s sister for his new home.

Christian’s house. One of the spare bedrooms. Vincent’s mind grasping at hazy memories, trying to recall how they’d ended up here.

Stillness hanging over the room, broken only by the occasional sound of a car driving past on the street, because even here in Christian’s posh neighbourhood, London was never completely quiet.

Vincent’s hand tingling numb under the weight of Christian’s body, and he tried to gently ease it away.

A soft groan, and Christian stirred, pulling away and rolling to the edge of the bed, taking the warmth of his body with him. Vincent let out a noise of protest until Christian skirted around the end of the bed to his side, pressing two fingers to Vincent’s lips.

“Shower,” he said, his voice low.

He reached down to grab Vincent’s hand and pull him from the bed, taking the time, Vincent noted, to let his eyes run appreciatively down Vincent’s body as he moved. Vincent returned the gaze. Taking in every inch of Christian’s body, illuminated even in the dark of the room by the streetlights flooding into the window well from outside.

Vincent settled a hand between Christian’s shoulder blades as the two drifted toward the shower room, skimming it down along the length of Christian’s spine to squeeze Christian’s arse, earning him a yelp from Christian and a playful nip at his chest. Their laughter filling the silent house.

Christian flicked on the lights and Vincent hissed and squinted his eyes shut against the intrusion.

“Sorry,” Christian’s voice hushed, as though he was afraid to break the stillness of the house. Hands waving toward the complex panel of levers and buttons that made up the shower controls. “Just…”

“Yeah.”

Christian leaned around the glass of the shower door to press at the controls and Vincent stepped forward, leaning in to press soft kisses down Christian’s spine from the base of his neck to just above the curve of his arse. Saw the soft bruises already forming above Christian’s hips where he’d dug his fingers in too tightly.

The hiss of water from the shower and Christian straightened and stepped forward, pulling Vincent after him. Steam billowing up around them. Christian’s hair and lashes immediately darkening from warm gold to brown.

The sheen of water on Christian’s skin. Scents of citrus and mint in the air around them as Christian flicked open his bodywash, squeezing it into his hands and rubbing them along Vincent’s chest. Tracing the lines of his body as though maybe he needed this just as badly as Vincent did.

This time he would take things slow. One last beautiful dream. His hands skimming Christian’s sleek curves. Committing them to memory. Savoring every touch, every movement, every glance, every sensation. Store them all up. Carry them with him in his mind as life whisked him away.

Vincent traced a drop of water down Christian’s neck to his shoulder, leaning down and capturing it with his tongue. Following the curve of Christian’s clavicle, making him moan with the pleasure of it, hands still skimming across the surface of Vincent’s body, tracing down his back to his hips.

He caught Christian’s mouth with his own and kissed it. Slow and languid this time. None of the raw fury of earlier that evening. Water flowing around them. The air close and humid. Vincent’s eyes burning from the soap and the water, and none of that mattered. Nothing mattered but Christian’s mouth on his own, and Vincent closed his eyes and lost himself in the kiss.

 

Monday, 28 August, 2017 — London, England

The next morning—up before the sun as Christian had promised—they leaned together against Christian’s kitchen counter, mugs of coffee steaming as the first light of morning began to creep into the windows. Casting soft light around them as it shown through the curtains. Glinting off the stone countertops and bouncing around the room.

“ _Success_ ,” Christian said. “With _Oranje_ , I mean. I know it’s been difficult. You’re in a tough group, and…well…”

He didn’t need to say the rest. The struggles of _Oranje_ since the previous World Cup were no secret to anyone following the European game. Crashing out of qualifying for the Euros the previous year. Coaching changes. Tumult in the ranks. The headlines surrounded them.

Vincent shrugged. “It will be hard against France, but our team is good. I believe we can make it through.”

Christian took one last drink of his coffee and glanced at his watch. “The taxi will be here soon.”

He set his mug down on the counter and turned to face Vincent. “ _Ik wens je het beste_. Really. In everything. Whatever happens. Of course I hope to see you again soon, but…”

Vincent caught the rest of the words with his mouth. Kissing Christian until nothing else mattered./p>

Christian’s hair glinting gold as the sun hit it. His blue eyes flecked with tiny dots of pale brown. His mouth coffee bitter. Solid and warm in the coolness of the London morning. His heart pounding against Vincent’s chest, quickening as he leaned into the kiss.

Christian clutched at Vincent’s hip, fingers digging in to hold him in place, and oh, Vincent wished it were that easy.

 _Christiaan_ , he thought. _My Christiaan. My world. My everything. How am I supposed to do any of this without you?_

He pulled back enough to look at Christian. Waited for Christian to open his eyes. Rewarded with a soft smile and Christian’s hand threading through his hair. For several moments, they simply stared at each other.

“ _Ik ga je missen_.” Christian’s words soft against Vincent’s cheek.

Vincent’s breath stuck in his throat. Afraid to say anything lest the tears welling up behind his eyes spilled out of him.

How could he leave this? How could he walk away?

He swallowed down the emotion. Dug his fingernails into his palms and willed himself to speak. Gasping out the words as his voice broke. “I’ll miss you, too, _Christiaan_. So much. I…”

Christian’s hand on Vincent’s chest. Another press of lips against his own, bodies crushing back against the kitchen counter. Christian’s tongue pressing against his own, swiping and licking at the corners of Vincent’s mouth.

And just as abruptly, gone, although Christian’s hand remained warm where it rested above Vincent’s heart.

“I have to…” Vincent started, dragging himself away from Christian and toward the front door where his taxi would be waiting.

“ _Ja_ ,” Christian started, then paused, silence hanging between them as they made their way hand-in-hand toward the door.

“Stay safe,” he whispered. He held up his phone and waggled it toward Vincent. “FaceTime later. Don’t leave me waiting.”

Another quick kiss on Vincent’s cheek and Christian pulled the door open for Vincent.

“I’ll see you again,” Christian said. “Soon. _Succes_.”

“ _Succes,_ ” Vincent replied as he stepped out the door into the coolness of the London dawn.

A wave and a smile and Christian stepped back into his house and closed the door between them.

“ _Ik hou van jou_ ,” Vincent whispered after him, into the air, then stepped off the stoop to the waiting taxi.


	6. I'm Finally Numb

Monday, 28 August, 2017 — Katwijk aan Zee, Netherlands

The moment he touched down at the airport, Vincent was swept away into the whirlwind of National Team camp. Car service to Katwijk, photos at the team hotel, team meeting. Room assignments. Vincent thanking whatever gods of football might still be watching over him that he’d been placed with Tonny. A familiar face from his days as a teenager in Rotterdam.

If anyone would be forgiving about Vincent’s ever changing moods, it would be Tonny. He’d know better than to pry. A listening ear, but not pushing Vincent to say more than he wanted to offer.

Enough time to get his keys, toss his bag into his room, and change into his training gear before the coach arrived to take them to their temporary training centre. Vincent throwing himself into the work the way he’d always done. Don’t dwell on things back home. Leave his life at the door and focus on qualifying for the World Cup.

 

On the coach after training, Vincent settled into his seat, his legs tight with the ache of muscles pushed to the brink. Davy Pröpper slipped into the seat beside him.

“Vincent.”

“Davy,” Vincent said. “How are things with you?”

Davy shrugged. “Good. Or, good enough. Adjusting to Premier League life.”

Vincent smiled. “Something I know well.”

Davy rolled his shoulders and stretched his neck to one side, then the other. “It’s been interesting thus far. Life in England. I’ve only been there a short time, but Brighton is a beautiful city. It’s not London of course, big city glamour, but I don’t think I’d want that, at least not all the time.”

Vincent nodded. “I can understand this. London is…in many ways it’s everything all at once, a lot of people, always so much happening. But after a while you find your niche and suddenly it doesn’t feel big at all.”

“Still, compared to Eindhoven. Brighton is a better fit, I think. On the ocean. The weather is mostly pleasant. It’s not unlike Alkmaar.” Davy’s tone light and conversational.

Vincent decided to ignore the implications.

_Come play for us, Vincent. It won’t be that bad. You liked Alkmaar. You can fit in._

Brighton. One of the clubs on the ever growing list of those expressing interest.

“I’m looking forward to a visit, sometime soon” Vincent said.

“Mmm.” Davy leaned back in his seat. “I’d be happy to show you the city. I’m only just learning myself of course, but...it would be good to explore with someone.”

Vincent pressed back into his seat, the fabric of the headrest scratching at his neck.

 _Newly promoted_ , his agent had said. _Seeking success. Hungry to win. A good opportunity. For one year only, Vincent_. _Not so long._

But in the world of football, a year may as well be forever.

“It’s a good club. Our facilities aren’t as nice as yours, but…it’s a great place to play. Everyone works hard. We all want to win. To fight for our position in the league and stay at the top level, but it’s been a challenge. You’re an excellent player, Vincent. I’ve seen the difference you can make in a match. In the right situation, you’re hard to beat. A fit for you, I think. It would be nice to play together.”

The idea of a friendly face around the training centre did make the idea more appealing. A newly promoted club with everything to fight for. A place he was wanted. Where he could make a difference.

“Mmm.” Vincent dropped his head to the side and stared out the window of the coach as the terraced brick houses of Katwijk rushed past. “You’re right, perhaps. It would be nice to work together. _Oranje_ would benefit, I’m sure.”

“Think it over, Vincent,” Davy urged. “The manager, he asked me about you. He sees a lot in you and I agreed.”

He sighed. Davy was right. The least he could do was consider it. If the call came in. If Spurs found a striker and accepted the terms—the conditions Patrick had laid out for him when they’d spoken earlier. If it were just a loan, a season away, he could return. Back to London and back to his life…although he knew there were no guarantees any of it would be waiting for him when he did.

 

After more meetings and a dinner with the team, Vincent finally dragged himself to the lift and up to his hotel room, grateful for a few seconds of much needed breathing space in his whirlwind of a day. Tonny had invited him to movie night with Stef, Wes, and Bruno, but Vincent begged off. He’d likely fall asleep as soon as the movie started, which meant he’d end up with his photo pasted all over the internet and something absurd drawn somewhere on his body in permanent marker.

He toed off his shoes at the door and stepped into the room, blissfully quiet after the chaos of National Team camp. He collapsed onto the bed, still clad in the jeans and T-shirt he’d worn to their team dinner, and shut his eyes for a few minutes.

In truth, he’d been thankful for the constant barrage of activity he’d faced since stepping off the airplane. A pleasant distraction from the thoughts threatening to claw him apart. No chance to think about London or Spurs or Christian, just focus on football and his country and the fans and getting a win.

The menial work of training providing him with some sense of comfort, no matter what was happening in his life. His muscles always remembered what to do, his body responding automatically even when he found it hard to concentrate through the storm in his mind. Even with all eyes on him, wondering what he’ll do next. What will happen tomorrow?

_Vincent the failure. Always letting his team down. How can we trust him? He can’t score for his club, how can he lead us to a World Cup?_

He’d pulled himself together. Had smiled at the media and told him he wasn’t thinking about what was going on at Spurs. That his focus was on _Oranje_ and a win against France.

Not strictly a lie. He was trying to focus. But how could anyone be expected to focus through all of this?

His talk with Davy on the coach. _A fit for you. You’re an excellent player. A great place to play._

Would it be as great as Spurs? As beautiful a city as London?

Perhaps not, but he would be welcomed there. Wanted. Not pushed out because he couldn’t make himself fit into a system that wasn’t designed for him.

Closer to London than any of the other clubs asking after him, although anywhere away from Spurs, from Christian, would be too far. Then again, if he had to leave anyway, it didn't much matter where.

He pushed himself out of the bed and rummaged around in his suitcase until he unearthed a pair of shorts and a looser shirt. The time for appearances and the public now over, and all he wanted was a little comfort at the end of his long day.

Pulling the shirt over his head, he paused for a moment, soft cotton stretched tight around his arms and across his face, the cool air of the ventilation system sending a chill across his torso. He breathed in through his nose. The scent of Christian spreading around him, trapped deep in the fabric.

He’d tossed the shirt into his suitcase the morning of the Burnley match, lifting it from the floor beside the bed where he’d discarded it the night before. He’d changed into it as he and Christian lounged around the apartment that night, curled tight to one another on the couch as they ignored whatever was on the television in the background in favour of one another.

Now, the slight hint of Tom Ford and mint where Christian’s head had rested against Vincent’s chest, and Vincent smiled. He pulled the shirt tight around him, breathing in the scent, comforted by this tiny reminder of Christian’s presence. He knew the smell would fade with time. All reminders of Christian slowly disappearing from his life, but for now, this was enough.

Wrapped in the comforting smell of what he’d come to think of as home, Vincent lay on the bed and slipped into sleep.

 

An hour later, his phone chimed out from his bedside table and Vincent jerked awake. The room dark, Tonny still nowhere to be seen.

Vincent grabbed at his phone, Christian’s face filling the screen, and managed to swipe at it before the call hung up.

Christian smiled up at him, his hair mussed and damp from the shower, adjusting his earphones into place.

Vincent's own headphones were somewhere in his backpack, which was somewhere on the other side of the room. Tonny might come in. Might overhear. But Christian was calling him and Vincent couldn’t be bothered to care. It was Tonny, and Vincent could explain it away later if he needed.

“Chris, hi.” Vincent shoved himself upright in the bed, rearranging the pillows behind his head and upper back.

“Are you sleeping already? Is this how you spend your time when I’m not around to amuse you?” Christian’s soft, slurred Dutch odd after a day among the National Team, yet strangely comforting. More home to him now than the harsh syllables of the Hollanders.

Vincent laughed. “When I think about it, yes, probably it is. I’m a bit behind on sleep, as you know, and today…was a lot. It’s hard to believe we said goodbye just this morning.”

“Yes, true. But it’s been good. Sort of strange to be back, everyone speaking at me in Danish instead of Dutch or English. For a second, at the airport, I started asking the driver for something in English and then remembered I don’t have to.”

Christian ran a hand through his hair as he grinned down at the screen.

“How are things? With you, and with…”

Vincent shrugged. “Training has been good. Exhausting, as usual. As for the rest… Davy spoke with me about Brighton. He thinks highly of the club and the city. It might be a good experience.”

“For what it’s worth, I think he’s right.” Christian’s voice soft, but with his ever present tone of rationality.

A long pause and the edges of his vision started to blur, just a bit. A painful twist in his stomach—a momentary wave of sickness deep in his stomach. His body, the one thing he could always count on—had built a career around—betraying him even as he heard the words slip from his mouth.

“I know. I think…perhaps…I feel the same.”

And it was true. He did feel the same. Because Brighton might not be London, but it was still England. Close enough for a holiday once in a while and the club wanted him and he needed to play. He loved Christian, he really did, but football was everything to him. The only times in his life he'd ever felt completely whole had been spent with a ball at his feet. Christian was his light, but football was his world, who he was meant to be.

He needed to play.

“So that’s it, then?” Christian's voice cutting through his thoughts. "You’ve made your choice? Off to Brighton?”

 _No_. Vincent thought, instinctively, although he knew that wasn't true. He knew that if the offer came in—if Patrick called him right this instant with a loan deal to Brighton—that he'd go.

Maybe this was only a momentary reprieve, he had no idea. Maybe the only reason he felt calm and collected as he looked Christian in the eye and admitted he wanted to go was because he was caught in the eye of the storm and once the deal came through and his phone was ringing and he actually had to make the choice it would all come apart around him, but for right now…

“Technically there isn’t a choice to make yet. No one has called me about it. I know my options if things do come to pass, but Patrick says that until the club sign a striker there’s nothing definite. It could come down to the last minute. Which is…I have a match that day, so…”

“Let your agents handle it, whatever comes. Make your choice and let things run their course. Focus on your training and on the match and don’t worry about what you can’t control.”

A long pause, then Christian’s voice again, softer this time. Warmer, but laced with the slightest tremor, barely detectable over the tiny speaker of Vincent’s phone, but Vincent could hear it hovering on the edge.

“I…I want you to know that I will miss you. When you go. It’s easy for me to say you need to go, that it's the right decision, but…I don’t want you to think I don’t care. It’s just…football is cruel sometimes and if you don’t take a step back once in a while it’s easy to get swept away. But the thought of you not being with me every day. Please don’t think it’s easy for me either, okay?”

His head ducked down slightly as he curled into himself. Small and vulnerable on the other side of the screen. Dropping his guard for just a moment, a move away from the cold rationality of what they both knew Vincent should do. The briefest glimpse inside himself, and Vincent loved him for that. That he didn’t want Vincent to leave, not really, even though they both know he needed to, and that he was willing to say it, even if it was only for a second.

Vincent wanted to reach out and run a hand along his cheek, but he couldn’t, because he was here in Kaatwijk and Christian was in Copenhagen and there was so much space between them.

And somehow he’d come to define the distance by whether or not it allowed them to touch, which was madness because with phones and emails and FaceTime Christian is always only a moment away…but none of it was the same without Christian's warm presence beside him, not really.

He allowed for a second of silence. Trying to sort out the words in his head.

“I know, Christian,” He said at last, because he did know. He’d always known, but it was nice to hear the words for once. “But I’m glad you said so. I don’t want to say it makes leaving easier, because nothing can, but…to know you care.”

“I do. I’ll think of you often. We can call, and talk like this, but I know it won’t be the same. Not looking up to catch your eye at training or having someone to eat dinner with and talk to and lay beside at night. I’ll miss it. Even today, whenever something would happen at training I’d think ‘Oh, did Vince see’ and…”

“Ha. Yes. I was glad today was such a whirlwind. I barely had time to think about anything for once, but now…well, now everything mostly just hurts.”

He leaned forward to stretch out his shoulders. His legs ached from throwing himself into his training. From pushing himself to the limit in an attempt to escape the storm that had raged in his mind for the last month.

“Mmm, I know what you mean. I have this knot in my back right where I can’t reach and I thought…you know what I need? I stood in the shower for a bit, but it wasn’t the same, trying to reach it. It wasn’t enough. I needed…your fingers…and…”

He trailed off and Vincent laughed. Christian’s cheeks flushing pink as he flicked a quick glance around the room. Their conversation in Dutch, but Christian always so careful to never give anything away.

Still, Vincent knew what he meant. Ordinarily, on a day like today, he and Christian would turn the shower dial as hot as they could stand and let the water flow over them. Taking turns rubbing out the tension of the day. Fingers along shoulders and spine and hips until the touches turned to urgent strokes. Hands on every available surface. A need to feel one another on a deeper level.

The thought of Christian’s fingers against his skin now. Christian’s body melting under his hands. Reflexively, he touched his fingertips to his chest, just above his heart and pressed down on the mark Christian left there the night before. Pressed against the tile wall of the shower, steam filling the air around them, hot water sheeting down their bodies as they kissed and touched and licked at one another. As Christian bit and sucked and the air was filled with Vincent’s moans.

“ _So you can carry me with you wherever you go_ ,” Christian had said.

Christian mirrored Vincent’s movement, fingers running over the mark Vincent gave him in return, tongue darting out to lick at his lips before he worried the bottom one with his teeth. Vincent’s mind filled with the desire to capture that lip between his own and kiss away whatever words he’d been about to say.

Vincent shifted in his bed, squirming about as he tried in vain to adjust his cock, now half hard in his loose shorts.

The smirk on Christian’s face telling Vincent that Christian knew exactly what he was doing.

“Stop teasing me.” Vincent grinned down at his phone.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Christian said, squinting at the screen.”It’s so dark there. I can hardly see you.”

Vincent gave one last shove at his dick, then pressed himself all the way to a seated position and flicked on the light.

He was rewarded with a smile from Christian. “That’s better. Now I can see your beautiful face.”

Vincent felt a hot flush creep into his cheeks.

Christian’s laugh sweet in his ears. “What? Did I embarrass you? I mean it. I miss you. I know it’s only been a few hours, but you’re right, it feels like years.”

Vincent’s turn to laugh and duck his head. This playful earnestness from Christian, rare, even when they were alone. Flashes of Christian’s wry humour breaking through the impassive façade. Cracks in the armour, and Vincent lived for these moments.

“We’re sort of a mess, aren’t we?”

“Hmmm,” Christian said. “A beautiful mess, yes. After all, here’s me all businesslike and telling you to leave me behind and go to Brighton and then the next second getting all sentimental because you're laying in bed making that face.”

“What face?”

“Your ‘I really want to fuck you right now’ face.”

Vincent straightened up, mouth dropping open, because what? And alright, he’d admit that ever since he was a child he’d been unable to avoid wearing every single one of his emotions as plain as day on his face, but he did not have an ‘ _I want to fuck you_ ’ face. He did _not_. Because if he did, it surely wouldn't have taken Christian _so long_ to catch on to the fact that Vincent had wanted to fuck him all the time from the very first moment they'd met.

He scowled down at the phone where Christian’s face was quirked into a wide grin, the corners of his eyes crinkling up as he laughed at Vincent.

“I don’t have a face for that.”

“Mmmm.” Christian’s voice shaking, with laughter this time, and none of this was funny thank you very much. “Not true. You have a face for everything. Lucky for you, that one is particularly hard to resist.”

“Stop laughing! I do not have an I want to fuck you face.” His voice a bit louder than he’d intended. Echoing off the walls and through the sparse, open space.

The click of a door handle a second later and Tonny’s voice around the corner. “Do I want to know?”

Ugh of course. Of course Tonny would have to choose this exact moment to walk back into the room—Vincent’s dick still obviously hard in his shorts. Christian’s face on his screen, hand over his mouth now to hold in his laughter. His shoulders shaking.

“It’s…uhhh…” Vincent said, flashing a warning look down at Christian as he scrambled for the button to mute the audio.

“None of my goddamn business,” Tonny said, lifting his headphones from the bedside table and sliding them around his neck. “I’ll just…be over here listening to Yung Nnelg. You…keep on doing whatever it is you’re doing. Don't worry about me.”

Heat rising in Vincent’s cheeks. “I…ummm.”

Tonny held up a hand and shoved his headphones over his ears. On screen, Vincent found himself staring at the ceiling of Christian’s hotel room, phone abandoned on the bed as Christian continued his fits of laughter.

Vincent rolled from the bed and rifled through his backpack for his earphones. Not that they would have helped with this particular situation, but at the very least he might convince Tonny he’d met some nice woman in London and things were going well.

Another small prayer to whatever powers might be looking out for him that this was Tonny who'd walked in, and odds were good he wasn’t going to ask questions anyway, because God knew he'd seen Vincent at his absolute worst on more than one occasion and still seemed to genuinely enjoy his company.

Vincent had just straightened up, earphones in hand, when Tonny slipped his headphones off the ear closest to Vincent. 

“To be fair to whoever that is, you do though,” he said, his voice matter-of-fact.

Vincent’s face burning hot now, and how did Tonny know anything about his sex face?

“I…oh my God, what?” Vincent’s head in his hands because this was not happening to him.

“You have a face. For everything. Definitely for that.” Tonny shoved his headphones back on his ears and flashed Vincent a thumbs up.

Vincent flopped onto the bed, shoved the headphones into their port, and tapped at his screen, still showing the dull white of the hotel ceiling tiles. “Are you done?”

Darkness as Christian’s hand closed around his phone, then a finger jabbed at the screen before Christian’s gasps of laughter burst into his ears.

“Oh. My. God.” Christian gasped out in English before switching back to breathless Dutch. “Your entire face right now. Who was that? He’s fantastic. We should be friends.”

Vincent glared down at Christian. “Tonny. Who apparently has seen my non-existent sex face. _Godverdomme_ , Chris stop laughing.”

“That was priceless. Made my night.”

“You know,” Vincent said. “This is only funny because it’s Tonny who walked in and not someone like…Daley. He would have been over here trying to see my screen and demanding to know all about my life and what I was doing. How would you like that? Daley’s a gossip. It would be around the whole team before I woke up for training tomorrow…’hey, did you all hear how Vincent was talking to Christian Eriksen about his sex face? Scandal!’ As if Daley has any right to judge.”

At this, Christian’s face sobered and he managed to regain his composure, although his eyes still shone with tears, his entire face red from gasping for air.

“Okay. Okay. You’re right. Probably…" Christian took a deep breath and closed his eyes for a few seconds. “We should call it a night before anything actually untoward happens. But before that, I need you to know something.”

Christian’s tone serious. His face calm and controlled. The shift in mood instantaneous in only the way Christian could manage.

“What?” Vincent whispered, his tone shifting to match Christian’s.

“Your I want to have sex face and your sex face are completely different.” Christian said, struggling to keep his expression neutral before he gave up the fight and burst into a wide grin.

“Fuck you, Eriksen.”

Blue eyes fixed on his, and he needed so badly to touch Christian right now.

“Oh, _liefje_ , you don't know how much I wish you could.” Christian’s lips against the phone screen, and Vincent followed suit. And if his heart was aching and his stomach felt sick, well, he supposed he'd just have to get used to the sensation. Hope it would fade with time. That maybe, after a few months, this aching need to touch Christian, to watch his body move and feel his solid warmth beside him would go away and he could learn to be happy with these stolen moments. Christian's face on his screen. Christian's voice in his ear.

“Goodnight, beautiful,” Christian said. “Call me when you can.”

“I’ll be in Paris,” Vincent replied. “I don’t know.”

“If you can. Stay safe. Sleep well. I’ll miss you hogging all the bedclothes.”

Vincent shook his head, blinking his eyes against the pricking at their corners He forced a smile. “I’ll miss waking up at 2am with my arm tingling because you decided to use it as a pillow.”

“Mmm.  _Slaap lekker, mooierd._ ”

“ _Slaap lekker, lieveke._ I’ll miss you.”

Christian’s face on the screen for a second more, then vanishing, Vincent’s phone flashing back to the home screen. All the laughter from a moment ago turned to the dim silence of a hotel room. Missing Christian in the space of an instant. Everything too cold and too big and too empty.

He knew he’d regret not taking the time to get ready for bed, to brush his teeth and wash the day’s dirt from his face, but it all seemed too hard all of a sudden, without Christian crowding behind him into the bathroom as they fought for space at the sink and the mirror.

Without Christian beside him, warm in the chill of the night. Soft breath dampening his skin.

He yanked the bedclothes around him and over his head. Curled into himself and tried to pretend the whole world didn’t feel quite so empty without Christian beside him.


	7. Center of the Storm

Thursday, 31 August, 2017 — Paris, France

They’d been given the morning off prior to the match, most of the team lazing around the hotel meeting room that doubled as the players lounge. Trying to relax a bit and shake off some of the heightened nerves as the match loomed. Vincent headed up to the lounge with Wesley and Stef after breakfast, but he’d only made it through half a round of table football before his phone vibrated against his leg.

Excusing himself, he stepped back and slid the phone from his pocket with his right hand. Patrick’s number.

This was it then. The call could only mean one thing. Transfer news. An offer had come in. Spurs had agreed terms. All he had to do was sign. To give the okay. Vincent, we’ve found someone to take you off our hands, so will you leave now? Oh, yes, certainly. Please allow me to walk away from everything I’ve ever wanted and everything I love.

His heart pounding. His throat dry. His legs turning to jelly underneath him and he gasped for breath. The noise of the room around him drained away as he stared down at his phone.

He’d thought he was ready. Had spoken with Davy again about Brighton on the plane ride to Paris. Not a place he was likely to win trophies or gain accolades, but a club that wanted to go somewhere and maybe that was enough.

Now that the call was coming in though…

He staggered to the nearest chair and collapsed into it before sliding his finger along the screen to accept the call.

“ _Ja.”_

“Vincent?” Patrick’s voice in his ear.

“Mmm.”

“An update. The club have brought in a striker for a medical. If it goes through they’ll be agreeing terms for a loan. Right now your options look to be Newcastle or Brighton, although it will be up to you ultimately. Nothing is definite until the signing takes place, but I wanted to relay the news.”

He felt the floor roll under him, like a wave reaching up and sucking him under, and there was nothing he could do. Kicking and straining for the surface. Gasping for breath.

His chest and stomach ached. The room too warm and spinning around him. Hand to his forehead and he closed his eyes, his phone clutched in a white-knuckle grip as he bent down, head between his thighs, unsure if he was about to pass out or be sick on the floor. Possibly both. The order debatable.

Everything was spinning, twisting. He reached down with his free hand to grip the seat of the chair—steady himself.

He’d known this was coming. It wasn’t a surprise. Shouldn’t have come in like a shock. Like the bottom had dropped out of everything and he was falling forever.

“ _Dank je_ , Patrick. I…keep me updated.” His voice a thin, high, choked sound.

Patrick’s voice distant, hazy.

“Vincent. I understand that you want to remain at Spurs, but...these will be good options.”

Another gasp of breath. “I…I’ll consider…I have to go. I have a match.” Finger jabbing at his phone to end the call. Bursting from the room into the coolness of the hallway. Jogging at first, then running full sprint to the lift. Lunging for the button and slamming his palm against it until the doors opened. Squinting at the controls to find the number for his floor and pounding the button with his fist.

Doors opened and he stumbled into the hallway, skirting a woman and her two children waiting to board the lift with a raise of his hand and a mumbled “sorry.”  Fumbling in his back pocket for his keycard and jamming it toward the door, shoving at the handle until the door yielded and he fell into the room, catching himself against the wall to keep from tumbling to the ground.

Deep breaths. Cool air against his face. He forced himself to let go of the doorframe. To stand on his own.

Round the corner into the washroom where he turned the tap all the way to cold and let the water run for a few seconds before putting his hands under the stream and splashing the water to his face. He bent down closer to the stream and shoved his entire head under, edge of the counter cutting into his ribcage, but he ignored the pain.

Cool stream of water over him. Relax. Breathe.

“Vinny?” Bruno’s voice around the corner. “Everything good? Are you ill? You looked like you were about to be sick. I can let Advocaat know…”

Vincent pulled his head from under the basin and turned off the tap, water cascading around his shoulders and streaming down his face. Not bothering to grab a towel as he stepped out of the bathroom.

“I’m fine,” he said, still panting for breath, his voice still thin. “Just…pre-match nerves. Nothing to worry about. I’m good now. I think I just need to stay here for a while. Lay down. Try to relax.”

Bruno frowned at him. “Vinny if you’re ill…it’s best if you let everyone know now. Let them work out the plan.”

Vincent put a hand on Bruno’s shoulder, leaving a damp spot behind on his blue training top. “I’m fine, honestly. Or…I will be after some rest. I’ll catch you all up in a while, okay. No trouble. I’ll be ready to go come match time.”

Bruno frowned at him, unconvinced. “Fine, but I’m sending one of the trainers up to check on you.” He backed out of the room, his eyes not leaving Vincent as he scanned him. Hair dripping, water droplets sliding from his nose, the shoulders of Vincent’s training top darkening as the water seeped in.

The moment the door closed behind Bruno, Vincent collapsed onto his bed, sliding his phone out of his pocket and tossing it to the mattress beside him. Trying to think through the pounding in his ears.

After a moment, he climbed to his feet and tore through his suitcase until he found the shirt he’d worn the other night. Christian’s scent fainter now, but still stubbornly clinging to the fabric.

He lay back down on the bed, curled on his side, facing the window. Pressing the shirt to his face, he pulled in deep breath after deep breath through his nose, surrounding himself with the smell of Christian.

He’d been ready for this. Prepared to accept a move away. He’d left London knowing he wouldn’t be coming back. But right then nothing was okay and everything hurt. His intestines trying to claw their way out of his stomach, and how could he do this without Christian?

The finality of it all pressing down on him and Christian would know what to do. Would stay calm and rational and rub his back and kiss his temples and tell him that this was the right decision and everything was going to be okay.

He grabbed for his phone, sliding his finger against the screen, trying to focus his vision enough to tap out a message.

 _Bent je daar_?

Most likely Christian was at training before his match tomorrow, but Vincent needed to try. Needed to hear his voice. At the very least needed to tell him what was going on.

He tossed the phone back to the bed and lay back down, knees curled toward his chest as he hugged the T-shirt to his face, fingers twined in the soft material.

Davy’s words: _A good club. A fit for you_. Christian had agreed. Patrick urging him to go. Christian urging him to go. His head screaming at him that this was the right choice…his heart begging him to stay at Spurs and not give up.

Why should he have to sacrifice one part of himself just to keep another?

He glanced again at his phone…no reply.

 

“How are you, Vincent?” Tonny’s voice from across the room as the door clicked closed behind him.

No trace of the concern or pity Vincent was used to whenever someone asked him that question these days. Just the simple curiosity of a friend.

Vincent shoved his head farther into his pillow. “I’m fine,” he answered, then stopped himself. This was Tonny. Who he’d grown up with. Who’d been there for Vincent through some of the worst nights of his life. Who’d helped him through this before.

“Honestly? I don’t know.”

“Mmm,” Tonny said. Not pressing, but waiting, Vincent knew, for the impending storm of words. Tonny had that way about him. Moving through life with an air of cool detachment no matter what was thrown at him.

The friend you’d phone up in the middle of the night while standing on the Rotterdam streets with no idea how to get home after you’d been out at the club and your girlfriend had left with someone else. Tonny would answer, no matter the time, same as he always did. Like of course you weren’t interrupting anything, and sure, he may as well come down and pick you up because why not, it had to be better than whatever else he might have been doing. A small amusement for a few hours, if nothing else.

Tonny knew him. Tonny wouldn’t judge him or tell him he was being stupid or any of it.

“I failed again,” Vincent said. “Just like before. I failed, and I have no idea what to do.”

Vincent had almost given up on football four years ago. He’d joined Feyenoord’s youth system as a teenager, making the choice to move to the city after he’d exhausted his opportunities near home. He’d enjoyed his years with the club, but he’d never fit in completely. Never comfortable there. A village boy from Brabant trying to make his way in the big city.

Questioning if this was what he was meant to do with his life. Training with the team, but never making any progress. Sat to the side of the reserves bench as his teammates and friends each gradually made their way into the first team, leaving him behind. No place for him behind the older, better, more established strikers.

Not much different than his time at Spurs, when he thought about it. He’d worked hard, made lifelong friends, and pushed himself to his limits, but at the end of the day he hadn’t been able to make it work. No matter how hard he tried, he’d never be a match for Harry Kane.

His move away from Feyenoord a new start. Drop down a level and build back up. One last chance, he’d told himself. One last chance to make football work.

He’d tried. Given it his all once more. And it was all going the same way once again.

A long silence, then Tonny’s voice.

“You’re playing for a top club in England. You almost won a championship. Champions League football. Doesn’t sound like failure to me.”

“I’ve been lucky, I know,” he said. “It’s been a dream. Living in London. Playing for one of the best clubs in England. Training with world class players every day in a top training facility. The best staff. Playing alongside…my teammates, and… To complain about it seems like…how can I be unhappy. I have everything.”

Vincent lifted his head from his pillow and turned onto his side ever so slightly, blinking one eye open to look over at his friend, then immediately slamming it shut against the sunlight filling the room. Everything too bright and too much.

“My agent called just now. The club is bringing in a striker. They want me to leave. Out on loan. Still in England, anyway. It’s not a bad deal, but…I keep asking myself how I can give up after such a short time? I know there’s a place for me in Brighton, and Davy speaks highly of the club. It’s the right decision, especially if I want to keep progressing, but…”

Tonny sat down at the foot of Vincent’s bed, the way he’d done so many times before. The gesture comforting and familiar. Two old friends slipping back into their easy ways as though they’d never stopped—even with four long years of change between them.

“I know how much you love Spurs. How much you wanted this move. How much it meant to you I know about… well, I know how difficult it is to think about leaving. So, remember. You don’t have to go. It’s your choice, in the end.”

Vincent flipped onto his back, eyes still closed, groaning as his stomach lurched.

“Alright?” Tonny’s hand on his calf and Vincent really didn’t know if he was, but he forced himself to take one breath, then another, then another. He opened his eyes and looked down at his friend.

“It’s just…I feel like I’m standing at the edge of a cliff and everyone I know is standing behind me chanting ‘jump’.”

 

“I get it,” Tonny said. “I thought about leaving, too, you know. Last year. The club released me and I thought, ‘now’s the chance to see what else is out there.’ But...when I really thought about it, I wanted to stay. What I have now, it’s what I’ve dreamed of since I was a child. I know there’s more for me. Better things. But Rotterdam, it’s my home. Feyenoord is my club. I’ll leave someday, but…I wasn’t ready yet.”

“What about _Oranje_? If I don’t leave Spurs, I won’t play, at least according to what I’ve been told. No way into the first team. Is that worth it? I’ll still get the benefits of training with the club, but if I don’t get regular minutes, well, you know the rules.”

“You know _Oranje_ can’t win without you, Vinny. Advocaat has to see that. No matter what, you’re at a top club in England. That counts for something. Take Jasper. He knew when he signed at Barcelona he’d never play, but he’s come back a better player. Smarter and stronger just by nature of being there training with the best people. You have too. We can all see it. You're faster and stronger. You can run all day compared to most of us. We’re under fire right now, and we have to put our best team on the pitch every single match, and that means you. Our whole lives, at Feyenoord, you were always the best of us, Vincent. The circumstances just weren't right.”

Tonny ran a hand over his bleached blond curls.

“You’re a fighter, you always have been. When you make a choice, you go 100 percent. It’s who you are. You know better than anyone what’s right for you. Take a loan, train somewhere else, try again. Or stick it out at Spurs and see how it goes. Follow your instincts. Go with what feels right. It's your choice. No one else’s.”

Tonny extended an arm toward Vincent, hand clenched in a fist. Vincent forced a smile and bumped his own fist against his friend’s.

“Stay strong,” Tonny told him. “Whatever you decide.”

 

In the dressing room before the match, the usual jovial mood replaced with nerves and apprehension. A few hushed conversations, voices low.

Robin’s quiet presence soothing raw nerves, diminishing some of the tension hanging in the air above them all as they got ready to step into the Stade de France tunnel.

“Relax, boys. Focus. Every match is winnable. Don’t let the pressure pull you from your game. We play as a team. We play to win.”

Vincent named as the sole striker. Eerily similar to the formation at Spurs. The one he didn’t fit in. The one causing him to fail. Shirt a different colour, but the scenario the same, and how could he expect it to somehow go differently this time?

Robin’s hand warm on his shoulder as they walked toward the tunnel. “Stay focused, Vincent. Their defense is strong. Use your strength and back them down. Most of all, keep your head in the match.”

Easy for him to say. For everyone to say. Focus, Vincent. Keep your head in the match, Vincent. Don’t worry about what’s going on hundreds of kilometres away where a room full of people are busy deciding your future without you.

No news from London by the time Vincent arrived at the stadium. He’d checked in with Patrick and gotten a terse _Still waiting on terms_ in response.

 _I have a match_. Vincent had responded. _I have to turn my phone off._

Call me as soon as you’re finished.

Tonny’s voice behind him in the tunnel as it had been so many times in his youth. “You’ve got this, Vinny. Stay strong, brother. Let’s fight.”

Vincent’s head spinning. Everything hazy and vague. Lights too bright.

More questions from Bruno. “You sure you’re alright?” And Vincent just nodded because he had to be.

Stay strong. Fight.

He stumbled as he stepped forward and Tonny caught him with a strong arm to his elbow. “Let’s go, brother. Together. Left foot. Right foot. Deep breath. It’s all of us now. All of us together.”

Vincent leaned in to Tonny’s grip, took a deep breath, and let himself be led onto the pitch.

 

The match a disaster from the start. No chance to stop the relentless attack of the French side. Their defense—the usually rock solid combination of Stef and Wes in the centre—always a half step slow when facing Griezmann and Lacazette.

Vincent’s mind blank, the whole world whirling around him in a blur of orange and green and blue. He didn’t know up from down or left from right. The only thing that made any sense to him was the feeling of his feet in the grass and the ball at his feet.

Somehow, they’d managed to emerge at the half only down 1 - 0. The pace breakneck and they’d been pushed to their limits, but they needed to do more. Come together in defense. Communicate. Close the gaps. Push forward on the attack. Make runs. Find space.

“We need more creativity from you, Vincent. Make space. They’re outpacing you. Turn the defenders.” Words spoken to him many times in the past year, and if he’d known how to do that he wouldn’t be in this situation, would he?

He closed his eyes and breathed, centering himself, mind drifting back to all the late nights on the Enfield pitch with his teammates. Shouted directions. _Find a way through. Push into the defense. Faster to the turn._ Vincent running forward, head up as Christian’s passes landed at his feet.

He had to try. Work harder. For Mousa, Jan, Toby, and Michel and all the time they’d put in for him. Most of all, for Christian, who’d never stopped believing in him and swore he never would. Who’d given all of himself to Vincent since the first day they’d met. Who’d been Vincent’s rock. His anchor in the storm. The calming presence always by his side no matter what surged around them.

Tonny subbed on for Wesley at the half and he flashed Vincent a grin as he jogged onto the pitch. “Same as ever, Vinny,” he called as he jogged past Vincent and into position.

The second half whistle sounded and Vincent exploded forward, pushing up the pitch and toward the defenders, back to the goal as he forced his way ahead toward the goal. Waiting for the pinpoint strike into the box, but it never came. No one able to find him. To see him making space and react.

He forced his way higher and higher, racing forward toward the goal. Anything to grab an advantage as he sought out Tonny’s passes, but it seemed like on every run he made the whistle blew and the official signaled him offside.

The cross never coming in where he wanted it to. The French defenders too fast, too strong. He worked himself to the limit, but they were always one step ahead.

 _Focus, Vincent. Stay aware. Hold back and find the holes_.

He tried to sit back, shoving into the defense and screaming toward Tonny and Quincy to move forward into the openings, but nothing worked. When he held his position, the holes closed, when he shifted forward, the passes came a half second late and the flag went up.

Eventually, frustration rose and tempers flared in the midfield. Mistakes compounded on one another until Kevin mistimed a tackle and was sent off. Down to ten players. Another obstacle to overcome.

Vincent glanced to the sidelines and saw Robin ready to come in. Help in the attack. A second person to find the holes and slide in around. A two-striker system the way he’d been raised. The only way it ever worked for him. He let out a breath. They could still make this happen. They could still win.

His number on the board, and his heart sank. Out of time. Preparing himself for the news headlines already: _Another disappointing match. Still can’t find the goal. Lacks the creative spark to lead the team. Out of form. Useless._

He was starting to think they might be right.

 

After the match, the dressing room almost silent. No one daring to speak. Their World Cup hopes weren’t technically over, they knew, but they’d dug themselves further into their already cavernous hole.

On the coach, Vincent sank back into the nearest seat and took a deep breath before sliding his phone from his pocket and flicking it on. Bracing for the barrage of notifications across his screen, his phone buzzing in his hand.

Two messages from Christian before the match:

_Sorry I missed you. Just got in from training. Hope all is well._

_Succes. Ik gelooft in je._

Messages from his family. His mother and siblings always dedicated to watching him play for _Oranje_ even in the most dire of circumstances. Love and support, as always. _Keep your chin up, lieverd._

A string of messages from Patrick. Updates on the situation at Spurs. New striker officially signed. Serious options for loans to Brighton or Newcastle.

_Advise you take a loan._

_Benitez is a top manager, you’ll be treated well. Brighton still also a good opportunity._

_Call as soon as you are able_. _Terms have been agreed. Still time to work out a deal._

He sucked in his breath and held it. Stomach trying to claw its way out from inside. The vice grip around his neck cutting off his air. Terms agreed. Still time to work out a deal

Still time. No time at all.

Tonny’s words cutting through: _You’re a fighter, Vincent. Stay strong. Your choice._

As he started typing out his reply, another notification popped up on his screen and for just a second he could breathe. Some of the tension fading from his body at the sight of Christian’s name. Phone buzzing in his hand as the messages flew in.

_I watched the match. I’m so sorry._

_I know you won’t believe me, but you played well._

_I want to see you._

_Call when you can._


	8. I Might Need to Be Near You

Back in the hotel, he knew he should call Patrick first. Take care of his business with the team. Accept the loan. Off to Brighton with Davy. He’d planned for it all before he left. Said goodbye. Left London a member of Tottenham Hotspur with the intention that it was for the last time.

It was for the best, he told himself. It didn’t feel right, but he knew it was the smart choice.

He unlocked his phone and pressed at the call screen. Stopped. Close to midnight in France. An hour until the window closed.

A string of frantic messages from Patrick asking him to call. Each one more desperate than the last.

Headphones in, stepping into the hallway so he wouldn’t disturb Bruno, who had crashed into his bed without a word the moment they stepped through the door.

Pressing at the screen until he heard the dial tone and then Christian’s face on the screen.

“Vince.”

“ _Hoi_.”

“ _Hoi_ , yourself. It’s late. I didn’t think you would call. I’m sorry about the match. I…”

“It is what it is.” Vincent cut in before Christian could finish. He didn’t need the pity. Needed to tell Christian the news--that he’d be headed to Brighton--and then call Patrick and make it all official. “We were outplayed. We needed to do better. I needed to do better.”

“Vincent,” familiar tones of sympathy lacing Christian’s voice.

“Don’t, Chris,” Vincent said. “Don’t pity me. Don’t tell me it will be okay. I needed to step up and score for my team and I couldn’t. I was too slow. Not creative enough. I couldn’t make things happen the way the team needed me to. I tried to get into positions and got shut down. I looked for the crosses, but…”

But they weren’t coming from you. I kept waiting for your beautiful strikes, but they didn’t come. No one else is as good as you. No one else is enough.

“France are a tough side. You did well at first, but going down a player…”

“I know. Excuses mostly. We were poor. We need to be better.”

A nod and silence from the other end, until finally Christian spoke. “I heard we signed a striker. Fernando Llorente. I don’t know him, but I’ve played against him at Swansea and Siggy speaks highly of him. I think…”

“Just say it, Chris. He’ll be a great addition to the squad. You’re not wrong.”

“So…what’s next?”

Vincent took a deep breath. “I have to call Patrick. Talk through the options. I know I should take one of the loans. Brighton and Newcastle. Both are good opportunities.”

“ _Maar_?” Christian said, his voice still serious, but Vincent could hear the hint of a tremor at the edge. Forcing himself to remain rational, which wasn’t what Vincent wanted, but was what they both needed. “I know you, Vince. There’s something more to this.”

“I’d sort of…come to accept that I’d be leaving. I don’t want to, but it’s the smart decision. When you consider all the reasons to stay or to go, it’s just…it’s an obvious choice. I spoke with Davy and I thought ‘perhaps Brighton won’t be so bad.’ It’s not far  from London, and at least I’d know someone there. All the benefits. It made sense.”

“Right?” Christian prompted. “Again… _maar_?”

“I…spoke with Tonny about things. The past and the present. It’s funny how he’s always the one to get us all to see things from a different perspective. A new look at life, as it were.”

Vincent puffed his cheeks as he blew out a breath. “I thought I was ready. That I’d finally come to terms with moving on and everything that came with it, but in the match today…Chris, I want to stay. I want to come back to London and train with Spurs and fight for my place.” The words poured out of him in a rush, a breech in the dam that had been holding his emotions back for so long.

On the screen, Christian worried at his lower lip, before he sighed. “Honestly, Vince, I think that would be a mistake. Brighton is trying to put something together. It’s a good opportunity to be a part of that. Jump into the squad as they launch themselves into the league. Put yourself in the spotlight a bit…in a good way this time.”

Vincent must not have held in his wince as well as he thought, because Christian’s face frowned back at him from the screen.

“Sorry, that came out… I just think. Well, you know all the reasons. World Cup year and…at Brighton you could be the star. Score goals again. A chance to shine the way we all know you can. Pochettino…when he makes a decision he means it. He has an idea in his head of what a player should be and if you’re not that…well.”

“I know, Chris, but…I made a decision, too. I chose Spurs for a reason and I mean to stay.”

“For how long? Until you do this all again in half a year? Try to wait it out until you haven’t played a competitive match in two years and you end up nowhere? Vincent, it’s not that I don’t want you to stay, it’s just…I want to make sure you’re really thinking about what you’re doing. That you’re not staying at Spurs and jeopardizing your entire career for the wrong reasons.”

The wrong reasons. Meaning Christian, of course.

“I have thought about it. I’ve been doing nothing but thinking about it. The truth is I’m better now than I was before Spurs, even without minutes, and I’m not sure that will be the case somewhere else. At Tottenham I have the best staff and the best facilities and coaches that push us hard. Brighton is good, but…they’re not Spurs. On the pitch today, my mind was filled with the drills we’d run, the advice you gave me—all of you. I looked for the holes, found the turns, waited for the cross, just like you said. I knew what to do and where to be, but without you, I…all of you make me better, Chris. I need to get better and I can’t do that without all of you.”

“Vincent…”

Vincent cut Christian off. “Tonny, he reminded me of who I am. Moving to Spurs was a big decision, too, and it wasn’t as though I gave it no thought and took the first thing that came along. I could have stayed at AZ or I could have gone to many other clubs, but I went to Tottenham because I believed I could make them stronger and they could make me stronger. I still believe that, and I want to prove they weren’t wrong about me.”

“I think you’d be stupid to turn down a loan, but it’s your choice. All I ask is that whatever you do, you do it with your head up. No matter your decision, it will be difficult, so think about it and make the right choice. You know we’ll all stand by you if you stay, but…”

“I know, Chris.”

“Good. As long as you know.”

They sat in silence, staring at each other’s faces on the screen, neither knowing what to say. Vincent unsure whether or not this was goodbye. Not convinced his head would win over his heart in the end.

“This is one of those life-defining moments, isn’t it?” Vincent said, trying to keep himself together, but his voice was breaking. He was breaking.

“Vincent,” Christian’s voice hushed. “I’m proud of you. Whatever you decide.”

And Christian was gone. The screen dark.

Vincent stared down at the phone in his hands. Possibly the last call with Christian as his teammate and this is where they’d left things. Their last words to one another as members of Tottenham Hotspur.

till friends, of course, and they would call, but what would their relationship become without the convenience of proximity? What had it been in the first place? More than friends. Less than everything. The way it needed to be, he knew, and whatever the case, it had been enough.

If he stayed at Spurs what would he gain? Five more months with Christian until they did this all over again. An endless cycle of waiting to see if the beautiful game that had shoved them together also ripped them apart, in the end.

What would he do without Christian? When it all came to an end?

Vincent had chosen Spurs for more than Christian, of course. Sure, an opportunity to train alongside a player he’d admired since he was a teenage boy with a crush made the decision easier, but it wasn’t why he’d gone. A beautiful club. A club that knew how to win. The chance for trophies and success. A manager who had shaken Vincent’s hand and said he believed Vincent could help them win. The same manager that now told him he’d never have a place again.

The last year, playing alongside his Spurs teammates. Pushing himself every day to be better. Needing to be better just to keep up. If he went to Brighton to be the star, who would push him to work harder? What would drive him to be better?

The last three days, he’d put in so much work. Run himself to the ground and collapsed, exhausted at the end of the day, and it was never enough. He couldn’t be enough on his own. Without his Spurs teammates surrounding him, making him to step up his game to match theirs. Forcing him to fight for his place.

He’d learned on the pitch today that he still had a long way to go, and that the only way he knew to move forward was to stay right where he was with the people who believed in him most. Who wanted him to succeed. Who wanted to help him succeed.

He needed to do this. Not only because he couldn’t imagine life without Christian right now, but also because he couldn’t imagine life away from Tottenham. He needed to do it because Tottenham made him better. Because Christian made him better.

He dialed Patrick’s number, unsurprised when Patrick’s harried voice answered on the second ring.

“Vincent. I’ve been trying to get ahold of you. We’re running out of time. We’ve submitted the paperwork for an extension with Brighton to buy some time, but I need a decision from you.”

Vincent paused for a moment, pressing his fingers to the still tender bruise Christian had left just above his heart. Maybe he was doing this for the right reasons, and maybe he wasn’t. Maybe staying was a stupid choice and he’d regret it later, he didn’t know. What he did know, was that if he walked away now, he would look back on this moment for the rest of his life and wonder what could have been if he’d decided to stay.

Tonny’s voice in his mind. _Follow your instincts. Go with what feels right. It's your choice. No one else’s._

In parallel with Christian’s words to him after the match against Chelsea—not even two weeks ago, but it felt like a different lifetime now.

“ _There wasn’t a choice, really. Not for me. Despite everything I’d been telling myself, It was always going to be this._ ”

The moment stretched out into blank silence. All rational thought in Vincent’s head strangled away, and this was it, and he couldn’t do it. Not alone. He had no idea how to make it through this and the league and the whole world without Christian’s warm presence by his side.

His mind blank and the words poured out of him before he could stop them. Before he could change his mind. Close to a whisper and his voice broke halfway through. Breaking like Vincent was breaking, but he let them come and he didn’t stop them and this might be stupid but he did not care.

“I want to stay, Patrick. I know it’s stupid. You don’t have to tell me I’m making a mistake and I’m putting my future in jeopardy or any of it, because I know it all. Because I’ve told myself all of it. I know I should go. Take the loan. Play somewhere else…but I can’t. I’m staying at Tottenham. I made a commitment and I’m going to see it through, for better or worse.”

He dropped his head to his hands. Hideous red, green, and gold carpeting of the hotel corridor scratching against his bare calves as he shifted on the floor to hug his knees to his chest. Heels of his hands digging into his eyes.

“I can’t leave Spurs, Patrick. I just…can’t. I’m sorry.”

“Vincent.” Patrick’s voice calm. A father soothing a child in distress rather than an advisor helping to broker a business deal. “I know this is difficult for you. I won’t push. You know my advice. I have just one question for you, and I’m sure I already know the answer.”

A long silence stretching between them, and then. “Vincent are you absolutely sure?”

Vincent’s breath came out in a stutter as he swallowed down the lump in his throat, but for once he knew the answer, knew it better than he’d known the answer to anything he'd been asked over the last few months of his life.

“I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

Another stretch of silence before Patrick lets out a sigh. “Okay. I’ll let the team know.”

Vincent’s entire body trembled, barely able to contain the chaos that surged inside of him.

Patrick’s voice cutting through. “Vincent. I’m proud of you. I’ll speak with you soon. Get some sleep, it’s been a long day.”

A click on the line, and then nothing.

Vincent sat in the silence of the corridor for a while, not moving. Knees to his chest, hands over his face. His body shook with gasps of breath as he finally let the tears he’d been holding back pour out of him, Praying none of his teammates would happen past and see him like this, curled on the floor of the hotel sobbing into his hands, but he couldn’t help it. Couldn’t hold back the tears anymore because it was over.

He’d made his choice. Followed his instincts. His career might be over now, end before it had even started, but when things had come down to it, none of that had mattered.

Spurs made him better. Made him who he’d become. Made him whole. Choosing football or Christian, and it wasn’t a choice. With Spurs, at least—even if he never saw first team minutes again--he could have both

Wiping his eyes, he sat up, dropping his head against the wall with a thud that he hoped hadn’t woken Bruno on the other side. He needed to call Christian. To tell him the news and face whatever came. Would Christian be glad he decided to stay or tell him all the reasons he was stupid for not going?

Vincent feeling like he’d possibly thrown away his entire future, but as long Christian was alongside him, he couldn’t be bothered to mind.

He glanced down at his phone, after 1am. Christian had a match tomorrow. He should let it go. Take Patrick’s advice and get some sleep.

He dialed Christian’s FaceTime.

After nearly a minute, he thought about hanging up. Sending a text instead— _I decided to stay, see you in a week_ —but Christian’s face appeared, eyelids sagging with sleep and squinting against the light of his own corridor, hair sticking up in small tufts.

“Vince?”

“I decided to stay, Chris.”

A moment and then Christian shakes his head, blinking a few times before staring at Vincent with wide eyes.“You…what?”

“I decided to stay. With Spurs. Maybe it’s stupid. Maybe it was the wrong decision, I don’t know. But I thought about it, I really did. It’s like you told me after the Chelsea match. There wasn’t a choice. It was always going to be Spurs, no matter what I told myself.”

A frown, and Christian stared into Vincent’s face through the screen. “You’re right, of course.”

“I am?”

“Yeah. That was stupid.”

Oh.

So it would go that way, then. Christian telling him all the reasons he should have chosen differently. Calm rationality and cold detachment as he read back the laundry list of everything Vincent had already replayed over and over in his mind. He closed his eyes, waiting for what came next.

“But I’m glad you’re staying. I didn’t want you to go. I’d never ask you to stay, of course, because that wouldn’t be fair. I knew it was stupid, that I was being selfish, that you needed to go in order to find your feet. Still, it didn’t matter. I meant what I said that day. No matter what I thought I wanted—or in this case should want, I suppose—it was always inevitable. You and me.”

Vincent’s face burning hot and the corners of his eyes stinging as the tears threatened to spill out of him once more.

“God I wish you were here,” he said, words coming out in a desperate rush.

“Me too, _liefje_ , me too. But we’ll be together soon enough. For now, try to get some sleep. You’ve had quite a…month.”

“I can’t believe it’s over.”

A wry shake of Christian’s head and a soft smile. “Vincent, love, it’s only just beginning.”

He pressed a kiss to the screen that Vincent gladly returned. “ _Slaap lekker, liefje._ ”

“ _Slaap lekker, Christiaan. Succes_ tomorrow.”

“Mmmm, yes, thank you. I think…tomorrow will be a good day. One of the best in a while.”

Vincent nodded. “I agree. Goodnight, _Christiaan._ I…” A deep breath. Hold it in. Because while he’d said these words to Christian before, they’d always been murmured in the dark as Christian slept beside him or whispered into the wind once Christian was too far away to hear.

“ _Ik hou van jou_.”

A sharp intake of breath and Christian’s eyes wide and dark he studied Vincent’s face. Mouth open to speak, and then closed again, and _oh_ , godverdomme, _Vincent what have you done?All this to spend a few more months with Christian and now you’ve said this and pushed too far and he’s not ready for this and that’s not what this is and—_

Christian’s voice cutting sharply into his thoughts, and Christian’s mouth in a warm, shy smile.

“I love you too, Vincent. So much.”

**Author's Note:**

> I started this fic before the rest of the story had been told (Vincent ending up transferring to Fenerbaçe S.K. a few days after this fic ends), but I wanted to end it here. If you want to read a great narrative of Christian's side and exploring what happens after this, I highly recommend [The Space Inbetween](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12043176) and it's companion fic [Komt Goed](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12289902).


End file.
